Broken Roads
by Insomniac-Angel
Summary: A series of shorts focusing on Eliot, both with the Leverage team, and in the past. It's never the destination, but the roads we took there that make us who we are.
1. The Accident: 17

Hello,

So, I'm Insomniac-Angel...recent convert of the awesomeness that is Leverage. And when I convert to a show, I 'fic :) Not much of the team in this bit...more of a prologue, really, to a series of shorts/character studies I have in mind. Mostly just me having fun and playing with dialogue. I adore characters who serve little other purpose than to just look cool while kicking glorious amount of ass and I think Christian Kane is sex on legs (god, the eyes, the hair, that VOICE...I think I just popped an ovary) so it should be pretty easy to figure out who I'm focusing on.

Disclaimer: I make no claim on Leverage, or any registered trademarks thereof. Just playin' in the sandbox, people, no need to get proprietary.

* * *

He is two weeks shy of his seventeenth birthday, and all he can think about as he methodically clears up the mess he and his siblings have made of the house is how he can get Aimee to go to junior prom with him.

He moves through the living room, hands full of Lego bricks and half-naked Barbie dolls, shoving everything haphazardly into the little plastic bins that his Mama keeps under the big front windows just for that purpose. The coffee table in front of the TV is littered with bowls, plastic flatware, and paper plates covered in orange grease stains and half-eaten pizza crusts. Despite his best efforts, little puddles of melted ice cream and chocolate sauce are congealing into a sticky mess on the walnut surface, and he shakes his head as he heads into the kitchen for a garbage bag and a wet dishrag.

Sara-Beth's high pitched giggles float out of the tiny bathroom down the hall, mixing with the oh-so-dulcet sounds of splashing water and Jesse's wheedling pleas for the little girl to just hold _still_ already so he can wash her hair. He can't help but laugh as he pulls a garbage bag from beneath the sink.

"Jesse, please try not ta' drown yer sister!" he calls over his shoulder, turning the hot water on and running a dish towel underneath the stream.

"Man, EJ!" his brother shouts with the kind of indignation only a ten-year-old can muster. "She's yer sister, too, ya' know! You could help!"

"I could," he agrees amicably, "but I ain't." He chuckles again as Sara-Beth squeals in delight while Jesse squeals in outrage. By the sounds of it, he's going to have to mop the bathroom floor before his parents get home, as well as clean up the living room. The splashing becomes more subdued, and he chooses to take that to mean Jesse has gotten down to business washing their baby sister's hair.

He is clearing up the last of their supper mess when he hears the crunch of tires on gravel alerts him to a car coming up their drive.

A bare second after he registers the sound, his living room is filled with flashing red and blue light. He freezes, the damp rag falling from his fingers to land on the coffee table. Their driveway is almost a mile long and their nearest neighbor is five miles away. For a moment, all he can do is stare at the window. He hears the dull thunk of car doors slamming and he tilts his head in confusion.

"EJ?" Jesse's soft, hesitant voice breaks his paralysis and he whips around to find his little brother standing in the entrance to the hall, a bath towel dangling from his hands.

"Where's Sara-Beth?" he asks, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears. Jesse's eyes dart to the window and his mouth works soundlessly.

"P-puttin' on her pj's," the boy says softly. "EJ, what's goin' on?"

"I dunno…go back to your room, okay? You keep Sara-Beth back there with you…read her a story or somethin'."

"But EJ—"

"Now, Jess!" His voice is sharper than he intends, and Jesse's eyes widen in confusion and distress. There is a loud, authoritative knock on the front door. "Please," he adds softly, "go take care a' Sara-Beth for me, okay?" Jesse looks between him and the door again, before nodding and scampering back into the rear of the house.

The knock comes again and he jerks, running his hands back through his hair. He licks his lips and crosses the room in a few short strides.

The cops standing on his porch are not from the local sheriff's office. Their car proclaims them state patrol and he glances nervously between them. The older of the two, a thick, stocky man with iron gray hair and deep lines in his face removes his hat and steps forward slightly.

"Somethin' I can help you with, sir?" he asks politely. The officer looks down at his hands for a moment, before squaring his shoulders and fixing him with a sober gaze.

"Is this the residence of a Mr. and Mrs. Eliot Spencer, senior?"

He looks at them and has never been as sure of anything in his life as he is that he doesn't want to hear what these men have to say. He feels the warmth slowly draining out of him, as if his blood is turning to ice-water in his veins. A dull roar starts up in his ears and he barely recognizes his own voice when he answers.

"Y-yessir…they're my parents. Is somethin' wrong?" He forces the question out. He _knows_ there is something wrong.

The older officer sighs heavily. "Is there anyone here with you tonight?"

"No sir, just me. I'm watchin' my brother an' sister while my folks're out." Somewhere in the back of his mind, he is vaguely surprised at how steady his voice is. The roaring is growing louder by the second and he can already tell, already see by their faces, and _please, God, no…_but he forces himself to ask anyway. "What's this all about?"

"We've got some bad news, son," the older man says kindly, and he grits his teeth, silently bracing himself, as if he can physically ward off the officer's words. "There's been an accident…"

* * *

He sits in the front of the church his parents were married in, and stares straight ahead. He is in his best Sunday clothes and his tie is knotted too tightly. He sits up straight, like his mama always taught him, straighter than he has ever sat in his life, clenching his jaw so tightly that his whole head aches. He will not cry. He can't.

Sara-Beth is perched sideways on his lap, resting her head against his chest and restlessly picking at his fingers. He closes his eyes for a moment and buries his nose in her soft, blonde curls. He's still not sure whether his baby sister really knows what has happened. She's not quite five, yet, and though Sara-Beth is smart for her age, he doesn't know if she understands the permanence of death.

She _seems_ to realize that Mama and Daddy aren't ever coming back, but she has so far been disturbingly calm about it. She clings to him, though, following him everywhere she can and watching him with slightly fearful eyes, as though she is afraid they will leave, too. At night, she begs to sleep in his bed, and he has not had the heart to turn her away. He thinks maybe he needs to hold her as much as she needs to be held.

Jesse sits on his left, serious and solemn in his black suit, with his dark hair slicked back off his forehead. If Sara-Beth has been unnaturally calm, Jesse has been almost _too _vocal. Once the shock had worn off, he had screamed and cried and thrown things. The boy refused to eat for two days, and he had briefly been afraid that his little brother would end up in the hospital on top of everything else. In contrast to his own stoicism and Sara Beth's timid quiet, tears are falling in a steady stream down Jesse's face.

Silently, he slides an arm around his brother and draws him close. The boy comes willingly, and he feels Jesse bury his small face in his shoulder. The preacher invites anyone who wishes to, to come forward and say a few words about his parents. He listens with half an ear as person after person rises—his parents' friends, high school classmates, colleagues…people he has known all his life. They talk about his mama and daddy and he feels something tight and hard and _hurting_ form in his chest.

But he can't let go.

Jesse and Sara-Beth need him to be strong. They have no one else to lean on, not really. The community has rallied around them as only a true Midwest community can—stocking their kitchen with soups and casseroles, donating money to cover the funeral costs and any incidentals while their parents' life insurance and accounts are sorted out. But it's all just temporary.

Both of their parents were only children. His mama was nearly thirty when she had _him_, and Sara-Beth had been a complete surprise when his mama was in her forties. Their Granny Spencer is their only living relative. The woman has literally turned her life upside down and started the process of moving back to their little town from Oklahoma City to take care of her grandchildren even as she is burying her son and daughter-in-law…but his grandmother is almost eighty and not in the best of health. It's enough to prevent the three of them from becoming wards of the state, but he doesn't know how well she'll be able to take care of them.

It will be up to him.

It will be up to him to be strong enough to keep what's left of his family together…to take care of his brother and sister. To do everything for them that his parents would have. In the span of a week he has learned what it is like to worry about how to keep food on the table and get the bills paid. The leak in the basement of their house and the truck in the yard with the busted alternator have become his problems. But it's worse than that.

He will be the one to teach Jesse to shave and change the oil in a car. He will be the one braiding Sara-Beth's hair and holding her hand on her first day of school. He shakes inside at the thought of what he has to be to the kids, now, and his throat closes up every time he thinks of all the things that they will never get to share with their parents.

He spares no thought for what it means for _him, _what he has lost_._ It doesn't matter, anymore. It can't. In the space of a week he's left his boyhood behind forever…he has to be a man now. For his siblings, for his parents, for his family.

"EJ?"

The preacher is speaking again, leading the attendees in a prayer that the souls of his parents will be safe and happy in the arms of Jesus, now, and that their children will know peace and strength in this horrible time.

"EJ?"

Granny will be leaving in the morning, back to Oklahoma City to put her affairs in order and start the paperwork to break the lease she has in a small retirement community there. She will be gone at least a week. They have plenty of food in the house, thanks to the ladies of the church's prayer circle, but he's going to have to fix the truck if they want to be able to get around. His mama's car was totaled in the accident, and the insurance check hasn't some through to buy a new vehicle.

"Eliot!" Belatedly, he realizes Jesse is speaking to him, the use of his given name in a soft, trembling voice snapping him out of his daze. He looks down at his little brother, tightening his arm around the boy's shoulder.

"Yeah, Jess?" he whispers back. Jesse scrubs his sleeve across his running nose, looking up at him with wide, fearful eyes.

"What's gonna happen to us?" Jesse knows as well as he does how frail their grandmother really is. She'd been in the process of moving from the retirement condos to the assisted living facility in her community when the accident happened.

Eliot takes a deep breath, drawing his siblings closer to him and squaring his shoulders. The last of something childish and innocent drains from his face, and his blue eyes take on a hard, steely edge.

"I'm gonna take care of us," he says gruffly, forcing conviction into his tone. "I don't know how, yet, but I'll think of somethin'. I'm gonna take care of everything."

He is a week shy of his seventeenth birthday, and all he can think about as he holds his siblings close is how to keep that promise.


	2. Point of No Return: Present

Heyas,

Muchas gracias for the reviews :) I'm glad people are enjoying. Like I said in the previous chapter, this is pretty much just me playing around with character pieces. There's not going to be a whole lot of action, but I think I'll work in some Leverage cases, as well. I'm also going to be flipping all around chronological order, so some chapters will be in the present, some in the past (and hell, maybe some in the future...who knows?) To help keep things straight, I'm going to be labeling what age/time period the chapter is taking place in. For instance, Ch. 1, The Accident, takes place when Eliot is 17 and so is called "The Accident...17" This bit is taking place within the chronology of the show and so is simply labeled "Present."

Easy, no?

Also, question, are there any character profiles that mention everyone's ages? 'Cause I know Christian Kane is, like, 34 or 35, but how old is Eliot? I'd guess early-to-mid 30's, but that's just me.

Any road, hope this is enjoyed as well. Ciao!

Disclaimer: Leverage and all recognizeable trademakrs thereof are completely not my property. I'm not making any money off of this and would greatly appreciate it if no one sued me. K? K.

* * *

He is too damn smart and too damn experienced and has seen too damn much to be doing something so damn stupid.

He grits his teeth and opens the throttle on the stolen bike just a bit further. The powerful machine roars underneath him, the vibrations singing through his body, and the buildings blur a little bit more in the edges of his vision. The wind whips over him, lashing his unprotected hands and face with bits of road dust and the biting cold that only deep winter can achieve. The roads are wet and filmed with ice and slush, dirty grey snow piled on the sides and he's driving too, too fast for these conditions.

Nate's voice is an irritating buzz in his head, barely heard over the roar of the wind and the bike's engine, and he ignores it easily. Some distant part of him is registering Nate's stern tone, is even cataloging the number of times he's been ordered to _stop, come back, wait for us_, but most of his attention is focused solely on the road and the barely-visible dark blur that is the van he is chasing through the streets of Chicago's warehouse district.

Warehouses...always with the shady deals in the warehouses. What is it with criminals and warehouses?

He hits a slick patch of ice, feels the front wheel start to wobble dangerously, but his body is already adjusting even as he registers the loss of stability. He crouches lower onto the bike, barely breathing as he minutely shifts his weight, bringing the bike back under control within a split second and with barely any loss of speed.

Even at her winter worst, Chicago has _nothing_ on the mountain roads of Nepal. Now that had been tricky driving.

He's gaining on the van, but not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough. If they make it onto the highway, he's screwed. They cannot afford to draw police attention and there's no way he can countenance putting innocent motorists in danger with some of his more…creative defensive driving. His eyes flick over his surroundings frantically, looking for some familiar street or landmark.

Hardison had given them a rundown of the immediate area before they went ahead with their little 'end-game,' but he makes it a point to know much more than the immediate area when they go out on a job. Most of the time, the others still seem to think that his default strategy is 'punch stuff until the situation improves,' but tactics is what he _does_. You don't become one of the most respected and feared names in the retrieval business if all you know how to do is hit really hard.

Though, admittedly, it helps.

A moment later, he sees what he is looking for and a plan crystallizes in his mind with perfectly focused clarity. Just as clear are the hundred reasons why he shouldn't go through with it. Ruthlessly, he shoves those thoughts aside, reaching up with one hand to rip the transmitter out of his ear and toss it over his shoulder, cutting Nate off in mid-rant. He cannot afford even the slightest distraction. Not now.

The turnoff is upon him within seconds and he slams the bike into a hard right. The bike fishtails for a few heart-stopping seconds, and he is forced to lean so far into the turn that the bike dips low onto one side, close enough that the cuff of his jeans scrapes the icy pavement. He brings the bike out of the turn, though, and opens the throttle as far as it will go, shooting down the darkened streets at even more insane speeds than before.

This area of town is deserted this late at night, a ghostly stretch of abandoned buildings, burnt out automobile frames, and busted street lights. No cop will waste their time down here unless there's a full-scale riot going on and he streaks down the center of the street. One block, two blocks, three…rapid-fire calculations flash through his mind—relative speeds and traffic light intervals weigh in and are assessed in a strange mixture of practical experience, automotive science, and the pure instinct that makes him so good at what he does. One more block and….there!

He banks hard again, skidding into a wide turn that aims the bike into the shadowed maw of a filthy alley. He races over broken pavement and strewn bits of trash, his eyes focused on the faintly yellow glow of streetlights at the other end of the alley. His hands tighten on the grips again, eyes narrowing, and the sound of his heart thudding in his chest overwhelms even the howling wind. He breathes in deeply—once, twice, three times. The bike bursts out of the alley, plowing over an empty sidewalk and straight out into an intersection.

He spares one, brief instant of thought to appreciate how much this is going to _suck_.

Then, as the rear wheel clears the curb, he throws his weight to one side and dumps the bike down onto the road. He twists the front wheel as hard as he can, raising the front half of the bike up enough to wrench his leg up and around, and curls his torso upwards. Even so, he feels his jeans catch roughly on the asphalt, and almost immediately afterwards comes the biting burn of his side being scraped raw from the bottom of his ribs to the top of his thigh.

Over the tortuous scream of metal on blacktop, he thinks he hears the squeal of brakes. The bike slides all the way into the middle of the intersection, coming to rest in a heap, and he rolls clear the instant the momentum has slowed enough. His whole left side protests mightily as he gains his feet, but he ignores his body's acknowledgement of the protest with the ease of long practice. He whirls around to face the direction he thought he heard brakes from and his lips twist into a feral smirk as he is rewarded with the sight of his quarry.

The dark blue van has been forced to swerve to a halt about ten yards away, sat sideways in the intersection. The two heavies in the front come boiling out of the vehicle, striding towards him with murder in their eyes.

"What the hell, man?!" the larger of the two demands, his beefy hands already clenched into fists. "You crazy?"

He does not answer.

He simply lunges forward, catching the man with a hard uppercut to the jaw. Heavy 1 goes down like a pile of bricks and he's already snapping a kick at Heavy 2's kneecap. There is a satisfying crunch and the leg collapses, while the man howls in agony. He dances in close before the other can even think of going for his sidearm, wrapping his hands around the man's massive neck and driving a knee into his face with explosive force.

Two down. Two to go.

He darts toward the van, keeping low to the ground as he comes in close. He can hear people moving around in the back—muffled bumps and bangs, indistinct voices, and a series of rapid thumps that have a desperate edge to them. One voice rises in an angry shout, and even from outside the van, the sound of flesh striking flesh is clear. Pure, unadulterated anger coils in his stomach at the sound, spreading through his body in a rush of heat. He tamps down on the instinct to just rush the doors, yanking them open and _attacking_…he cannot afford to be foolish now.

He slinks in close to the van's side, ducking into the mirror's blind spot and leans against the freezing metal paneling. The cold seeps into him, the wind and the iciness of the vehicle conspiring to stiffen his muscles, slow his reaction time. He holds himself loose though, consciously forcing his body to relax into a position that will nonetheless allow him to lunge in any direction with the deadly speed and accuracy.

The sounds inside die off and he knows the two in the van are doing the exact same thing he is…waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The difference is, _he_ knows exactly who he is dealing with, while he doubts very much they were able to id _him_. They shouldn't have been able to get a good look at him back at the warehouse, anyway, and even if they did…in the shadowed street, with his dark clothes and his hair shoved up under a black ski cap, they're probably thinking he's just a particularly crazy carjacker. And right about now, it's probably occurring to one of the men in the van—a thin, nervous looking little bastard with a face like a ferret and a shock of greasy blond hair—that they are a hell of a lot more well armed than a carjacker. Even a crazy one.

Sure enough, a few heartbeats later, there's a dull thunk and one of the side doors swings open, the door coming towards him so that he is behind it. Sloppy. Very sloppy. He grins to himself and lightly rests his hands on the metal. The van creaks a bit as someone leans out, and he waits until he hears the sharp intake of breath that signals they have looked down and seen his boots behind the door. Then, he shoves. Hard.

There is a satisfying cry of pain as the door is slammed shut, meeting the soft resistance of a body. The door bounces back and he slips around it, reaching down to grab the mostly unconscious figure slumped in the frame. He drags the man out by his shoulders and flings him into the dirty, snowy street. There is a scuffle from the van's interior and he whips around in time to see his final opponent leaping at him, preceded by the business end of a sawed-off shotgun.

_Very_ sloppy.

"Bad idea," he sing-songs, and catches the end of the barrel, yanking it forward and throwing himself back onto the street with the momentum of the guy's leap. He plants his feet into the man's stomach as his back hits the asphalt and _heaves_, throwing the man fully over him, and leaving him clutching the gun. He rolls to his feet just as his 'opponent' is gaining his knees, and a shotgun butt to the face finishes the fight once and for all. The guy slumps down into the street and his lip curls in disgust as he cracks open the gun barrel, shaking the bullets out into the snow, and then flings the gun away from him as hard as he can.

He takes a brief moment to survey the scene, making sure that the street is still deserted, and none of the four goons is going to be getting back up again any time soon. Only when he is satisfied that he won't have to deal with anyone else does he refocus his attention on the van. He clambers up through the still-open door, half afraid of what he is going to find.

The interior has been stripped down, the seats and carpeting ripped out and he presses his lips into a grim line as he takes in the numerous rust colored stains that decorate the floor.

It is not rust.

Oh yes, he's going to _enjoy_ taking these creeps down once Nate gets another plan together. The first one went bad in a spectacular way, but there is no question in his mind that they will be going at it again. No way Nathan Ford is going to let these people walk. Especially after…

There is a soft sound from the back of the van and he's instantly scrambling towards it. The body is lying against the van's rear doors, hands and feet bound with duct tape and a stained, filthy pillowcase over the head. He inhales sharply as he takes in the torn skirt, and how the first few buttons of a ridiculously expensive silk blouse have been ripped open.

He slides to his knees beside the woman and instantly she begins thrashing, a series of stifled grunts, groans, and yells issuing from under the makeshift hood.

"Hey, hey, hey, easy…easy, it's me. It's me, you're safe. I gotcha." He gentles his tone as he slowly places his hands on the woman's shoulders. At the sound of his voice, the thrashing stills, and he quickly reaches for the edge of the pillowcase, pulling it up and off of her head.

Sophie gasps around the wad of cloth stuffed into her mouth, her eyes so wide the whites are showing all around. Her hair is wildly mussed and clinging to her face in sweaty clumps, and her makeup is smeared. There is a bruise darkening the skin of her beautiful face, right at the cheekbone. He growls to himself even as he gently pulls the gag out of her mouth, and then reaches for the knife he keeps in his boot to deal with the tape.

"E-Eliot," she whispered, her voice roughened by her dry throat. She hitches herself into a sitting position and offers her hands without comment when he pulls out the blade. "God, Eliot…" He slices neatly through the tape binding her wrists and ankles and shrugs out of the heavy goosedown vest he's wearing, wrapping it around her and zipping it up over her ruined blouse without a word.

She lays her hands over his for a brief moment, squeezing his fingers as she sucks in great gulps of air, shakily rebuilding her normal composure. He allows her the moment, even though he is itching to put some distance between them and the van—not to mention the four men he's left lying in the street. He doesn't speak and doesn't move, just giving her time to collect herself. It doesn't take nearly as long as he's expecting, and he can't help the little smirk that curls his lips…Sophie Devereaux may look as delicate as a hothouse flower, but she's one tough lady.

"Eliot," she says again, finally letting go of his hands and reaching up to try and smooth her hair back into place. She opens her mouth, closes it again, and shakes her head a little. When she looks into his eyes again, he sees a depth of gratitude and relief that words will never be able to express. She smiles at him, and he politely doesn't comment on how brittle it looks. She cups one hand over her ear, listening to the voices of their remaining teammates on the other end of her transmitter, and chokes out a small laugh. "My God, Nathan's pissed at you."

* * *

By the time Parker gets to his specified rendezvous point, picks them up, and gets them back to the hotel they have been holing up in for the duration of the job, the night has passed the line that separates 'ridiculously late' and 'ridiculously early.' The hotel is comfortably posh, and they have each gotten their own rooms on different floors to minimize the risk of being seen together. By unspoken agreement, they gather in Sophie's room.

After Hardison hugs her fiercely, Parker performs some weird motion that is halfway between a pat on the back and a thumbs-up, and Nate hovers indecisively for a few minutes, drinking in the sight of her with scared, tired eyes, Sophie vanishes into the bath suite. Before she kicks the door closed, they see her making a beeline for the sunken tub in the corner.

The room has its own separate sitting area, where they quickly migrate to and flop down on various pieces of overstuffed furniture. He drops tiredly onto an armchair, hiding his wince as the move aggravates his side. He hasn't had time to examine the damage too closely, but he already knows he's got a pretty decent road rash. Probably a few lacerations where his shirt and vest rode up and exposed his skin…but he can no longer feel fresh blood dripping down into his waistband. Hardison and Parker are glancing from him to Nate nervously, in between bouts of some freaky eye-communication thing that he doesn't even want to try and interpret.

Nate quickly puts them out of their misery. The older man is standing by the room's mini-bar, shuffling through the contents with a discerning eye. Casually, he glances over his shoulder at the rest of them.

"Hardison, Parker, call it a night. I want everyone in my room by ten tomorrow morning...we need to come up with a new plan." His voice lowers as he contemplates one of the little bottles filled with an amber liquid. "Henderson isn't walking away from this."

The two don't need to be told twice. He's not sure when Parker actually moves, but suddenly she's on the other side of the room, pulling the door open. Hardison scuttles past his chair, but pauses bump a friendly fist into his shoulder. Nate waits until the two have vanished before he gathers up his various selections from the bar and drops into the seat across from him.

His side has settled into a steady, burning throb, he hasn't eaten since breakfast, and he's been awake for most of the past thirty six hours. Granted, such is roughly equivalent to a weekend at a luxury spa compared to some of the conditions he's experienced over the years, but that doesn't mean he _enjoys_ being hungry, tired, and hurting.

Nate is staring hard at him, lightly pinching the neck of one of the miniature booze bottles between his thumb and forefinger. For the longest time, Nate doesn't speak, and he mentally rolls his eyes. If the other man wants him to start squirming, he's going to have to do a lot better than the 'disappointed Dad' routine…like, break out some bamboo shoots or a hot poker or something. He meets the older man's gaze steadily, and the silence stretches out between them. Eventually, it is Nate who breaks the staring contest first. He twists the little bottle of bourbon open and downs almost the entire contents in a single swallow.

"You put us all in danger, tonight." Nate's voice is hoarse and rough, but not from the alcohol. "Hardison was tracking Sophie's transmitter the whole time. We would've been able to find her. Together. Apparently it's escaped your notice, but you're part of a team, now, Eliot. What if you'd wrecked that damn bike before you caught up to the van? What if you'd brought the police down on us? Hell, what if you hadn't been able to handle Henderson's goons on your own?"

At that, he tilts his head and shoots Nate a look that transcends every language barrier on Earth.

In English, it boils down roughly to "Bitch, _please._"

Nate's mouth twists into a bitter, humorless smile. "All right, fine, strike that last one. But what you did _was_ reckless and irresponsible. Eliot, none of this is going to work if I have to worry about you going off and doing your own thing if you don't like what I have to say. You have to trust us. You have to trust _me_."

As far as dressing downs go, it's far from the worst he's ever had—and everything Nate has said is true. It was needlessly foolish and risky to go off by himself, never mind that he's been doing precisely that for the better part of fifteen years…that 'foolish' and 'risky' are the _benign _adjectives one could attach to what he's been doing for a living for most of his adult life. He could have put himself into a bad position, put Sophie into an even worse position, and he could have put the others in the position of having to rescue _him_ as well as Sophie.

He stops and considers that likelihood. It could happen. Maybe. If he went into a fight with a grade three concussion. And a broken arm or something.

Nate apparently takes his silence for agreement. He contemplates the contents of another bottle and swallows heavily. "They weren't going to kill her." Nate's voice is confident, and to the outside observer his manner is cold and clinical. If he didn't know Nate as well as he does by now, he would have sworn that he didn't particularly care about Sophie at all. He does know Nate, though, and he can see in the lines of Nate's shoulders how much it cost him to listen to the con going sour on Sophie, hear her cries of pain as she was attacked and tossed into the back of the van.

He stares at the older man impassively. "You're right," he says after a moment, and Nate quirks an eyebrow at him, obviously surprised by his acquiescence. He lifts one side of his mouth in a tired approximation of a smile.

"They weren't gonna go to the trouble of double-crossin' her an' trussin' her up like a turkey just to kill her right off the bat. Probably Henderson was gonna try ta' get more money out of 'Miss Coltrane's' mysterious boss. Figure an hour, maybe two to get 'er outside the city limits an' stashed someplace safe, another three hours for you ta' come up with one a' your brilliant plans, maybe figure three or four hours for setup and execution…they'd a' had her for twelve hours, tops."

It is Nate's turn to tilt his head, regarding him quizzically. He knows Nate saw all the same information he did when their clients approached them with this job. A young college co-ed, barely twenty years old, brutally murdered by an 'unknown assailant' just days after she agreed to testify against the owner of the hotel she worked at on drug and prostitution charges. Thanks to Hardison's expertise, they were able to find a string of a dozen similar murders in the past two years…prostitutes and junkies, all of them, but all of them daughters, sisters, or mothers. Beaten. Raped. Cut.

And all tracking back to one James Henderson and a particularly nasty character on his security team…coincidentally the one whose face he caved in with a shotgun butt just a few short hours ago.

"Lot can happen to a pretty lady in twelve hours with that kind a' scum, Boss."

He doesn't need to spell it out for Nate. He runs his hands back through his hair, mentally cataloging the various aches and pains that are making themselves known with increasing urgency. A long, hot shower is starting to sound like heaven, and he really needs to get the road rash cleaned out before it scabs over completely. Silently, he levers himself out of the armchair, and when Nate doesn't protest, he takes it as a dismissal.

He heads for the door, frowning as his left leg tries to lock up some, the muscles gone stiff. Each step pulls at the crusted scabs that have formed on the worst of the scrapes on his side and he can practically hear the painkillers in his overnight bag calling his name. His hand is on the door when Nathan speaks again.

"Are you all right?" The question sounds perfunctory, but when he glances back at Nate the man is looking at him with genuine concern. Nate's brow furrows as he makes a vague gesture towards his hip. "I didn't see—"

"S'okay, Boss," he interrupts easily. "Had worse."

"That's not the point," Nate replies seriously, and the man's tone brings a quick, rueful smile to his face.

"Tore up my side a little. I'll take care of it in my room. Nothin' too bad. S'why I'm a Wrangler man…takes a beating." He pats the leg of his jeans for emphasis. Nate looks as though he wants to protest, but subsides. "Nate?" He waits for the older man to look up at him again. "Just so you know, I do trust you…and your plans, and your orders. But you…you gotta trust that if I ever do go against you, it's only 'cause I got a damn good reason."

Nate looks taken aback, but the muffled sounds of splashing water coming from the bathroom distract him, and his gaze snaps to fix on the door separating him from Sophie. Nate swallows hard, just staring at it, and he is hard pressed to put a name to the expression on the older man's face. Privately, he wonders if Nate is ever going to have the strength to break down and admit that he's just as deeply in love with Sophie as she is with him. It would make their lives a whole hell of a lot easier.

He turns back to the door, and is halfway out into the hall when Nate's soft voice stops him.

"Eliot…thank you."

He doesn't turn around, and doesn't bother to ask what Nate is thanking him for.

"No problem, Boss. No problem at all."

* * *

He makes it to his own room without further incident and heads straight for the bathroom. He shucks off his shirt on the way, quickly followed by his boots and socks. He waits until he's actually standing on the bathroom tile before he tackles the jeans, though, as the entire left side of the pants has pretty much crusted to his mangled skin. He jerks them off quickly--hissing through his teeth as the scrapes and lacerations are torn open again--and kicks them into one corner along with his ruined boxers.

The shower is turned on as hot as he can stand it, and he adjusts the showerhead to a pulse setting. It isn't until he is standing under the water, watching the light stream of bloody, dirty water swirl around the drain that he finally admits what is really wrong with his earlier actions.

He doesn't regret saving Sophie. Not for an instant. He doesn't regret tearing after the van instead of waiting for Nate to come up with an actual plan. He knows what people like Henderson are capable of—far more intimately than any of the others, he'd lay odds, and he'll be god_damned_ if anyone like that ever gets close enough to lay a finger on Sophie.

Or Nate.

Or Hardison.

Or, God help him, even Parker.

And _that_ is the problem. He'd reacted tonight…without thought, without hesitation. The instant he realized Sophie was in real danger he'd been off like a shot. Only it hadn't been the straightforward concern of one teammate for another, or the tactical worry of one missing link weakening the chain.

It hadn't even been the latent southern gentleman in him reacting to someone trying to hurt a woman.

No. He'd heard Sophie's scream of surprise and pain over his earpiece, and his heart had clenched in his chest. Every protective instinct in his body surged forward, screaming at him that Sophie was in danger…and the thought of Henderson or one of his goons laying a finger on beautiful, sweet, elegant Sophie was simply unacceptable.

He'd reacted the way he would have if it had been his Sara-Beth's voice on the other end of that transmitter.

He'd reacted as if it were a friend in danger.

As if it was _family_ in danger.

And he doesn't want to admit it, but deep down he knows he would have reacted exactly the same way had it been any of the others. Since when did he equate their little ragtag group of modern-day Robin Hoods with family? Since when has _anyone_ but his brother and sister been that important to him? He can't start caring about these people. He can like them, he can respect them, he can give them his loyalty and his protection…but if he starts caring about them, really and truly caring about them, then it's all over. Caring for people, loving them, it only ends badly in his line of work. Leverage Consulting is fun, a good use of his skills, and a way for him to feel like he's balancing the karmic scales a little. It's a great way to mark time until something better comes along…something he can now afford to be choosy about because of that first job.

That's all it is. It can't be more. He knows how it ends when you start caring about the people you're working with. It makes you sloppy, it makes you stupid. It makes you take foolish risks and someone ends up getting hurt or killed.

These people are _not_ his friends. They can't be.

He presses his forehead against the tiles in the shower, letting the steaming water sluice over his body, and tries not to think about Sophie's scream, or the way she'd instantly calmed when he spoke to her in the van. He tries not to think of Nate's whispered thanks, or Hardison's friendly shoulder bump. He does not get emotionally involved.

He is too damn smart and too damn experienced and has seen too damn much to be doing something so damn stupid. Unfortunately, he's pretty sure it's already too late.


	3. Treading Water: 17

Heyas,

Once again, thanks for the reviews :) I'm glad this has been well received...it's really fun to write!

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the rightful owners of Leverage and all registered trademarks thereof. I'm just playing in the sand box and promise to return all the toys in mint condition. Please don't sue me.

* * *

These days, he feels as though he has been tossed into the middle of the ocean and left behind. There is no hope of relief or rescue and the water just keeps getting colder, the waves rougher. Something in the house breaks down, or Jesse gets into trouble at school, or his grandmother has another doctor's appointment and Doc Whitton's face gets a little grimmer…and he feels the water lapping just a little bit higher.

Sometimes he thinks he is drowning by inches, no matter how hard he fights to keep his head up. When those days come—and dear God, they come often-- he sits on his front porch, staring down the driveway and feeling the temptation to just get in his daddy's truck and drive as far away as he can coiling in his chest like a snake.

It's been almost a full year since the accident that turned their whole world upside down. They made it through Sara-Beth's first day of kindergarten, and Christmas, and the hurt is easing, bit by bit. He's not so foolish as to think it will ever completely go away. Sometimes he still catches himself listening for the sound of his daddy's boots on the porch, or waking up in the mornings and wondering why he can't smell Mama's coffee in the kitchen. Sometimes he still curls on his side at night, eyes stinging and a hard knot in his throat. It _is_ getting easier, though.

What is _not_ getting easier is keeping the promise he made to his siblings on the day they buried their parents.

He's always been responsible and hard-working…things his parents had instilled in him at a young age. He's always done his chores, kept up his grades, and helped with his siblings as much as he could. He thought he would be able to handle things after they lost their parents…to step up and be the man of the house the way he knows Mama and Daddy would've wanted. But it's all so much harder than he thought it would be.

The roof is going to need replacing sometime before next winter and he's pretty certain that all that's holding the truck's engine together at this point is habit. His parents had life insurance, but it wasn't like they'd taken out huge policies. They'd had to use most of it to pay off credit cards and the loan on the house. Granny has a pension and her social security, and between that and the job Aimee's father gave him they get by--but it gets a little harder every month.

He's burned suppers and ruined clothes in the wash. Homework has vanished and favorite toys have been lost forever. Hair tangles painfully when he tries to brush it, and he doesn't buy the right kind of shoes for Little League. Granny helps as much as she can, but her health is failing rapidly. It's hard for her to get out and about to run errands, and there's just not much she can do when it comes to chasing after Jesse and Sara-Beth. Making sure they start their chores and do their homework when they get home from school is about the extent of it.

It hurts her, not being able to truly care for them. Granny Spencer was a strong, able woman in her youth, and he knows she feels guilty for the way age has betrayed her; for all the responsibility she's had to shift onto his shoulders. There's nothing that can be done about it, though, and so he accepts the weight without complaint. He's just grateful that she's even able to be here so that he, Jesse, and Sara-Beth can stay in their home, stay together.

Between work, school, and all he has to do around the house, he barely has time to _eat_, let alone have a social life. He can't remember the last time he got a full night's sleep. He's considered just dropping out of school, even though he's still making decent grades, so he can have more time to work and be around the house. He can't quite bring himself to do something that he knows would've broken his mama's heart, though.

So, he does the best he can. He gets up at five in the morning to make sure breakfast is ready, lunches are packed, clothes match, and teeth are brushed. He gets the kids on the school bus and then hauls tail in the truck to the high school, where he slogs through his classes with dogged determination. He foregoes a study period and gym so that he can get his graduation credits out of the way and have a half-day during the last half of his senior year. As soon as the final bell rings, he's off to the stables to put in a few hours…more on the weekends.

At home, he fixes supper and finishes off what chores need to be done. Jesse helps out, but there's only so many things a ten-year-old can really do. He checks homework and presides over bath and bed time, then it's back into the kitchen to wash the dishes, take care of any bills and mail that needs seeing to, and tackle his own homework. Most nights, he doesn't get to bed until midnight or later…only to start the whole process over again the next day. Granny is their legal guardian, but he's the one who has stepped into the role of parent. He's all they have. It wears on him, but he puts on as brave a face as he can for his family.

Nights like this, though, it's hard not to just curl up in a ball and beg God to please stop the ride, 'cause he wants off.

"Sara girl, hold still! You keep squirmin' an' I'm gonna stick ya'," he mumbles around a mouthful of pins, nearly giving himself a new tongue-piercing in the process.

"Gonna be late, Elly!" Sara-Beth whines back, and the sounds of Jesse's snickers float over from the couch in the living room, the boy never tiring of hearing Sara-Beth's name for him.

"Yeah, _Elly_, we're gonna be late!" Jesse calls, and he turns to shoot his brother a warning glance through the doorway to the living room.

They are in the kitchen, where the light is best, Sara-Beth standing on one of the chairs while he crouches in front of her. His mama's sewing kit is spread out on the kitchen table and he is trying desperately to get the final touches done on his sister's costume for the little play her kindergarten class is putting on at Parent Night…which starts in less than forty-five minutes.

It's a half-hour drive to the school.

Sara-Beth is supposed to be a rabbit. An adorable, pink, fluffy rabbit. Miss Shelley, her teacher, was kind enough to provide all the children with a few yards of pink, fluffy fabric and a set of sickeningly cute bunny ears attached to plastic headbands, but it's up to the families to actually make the costume. Granny's eyesight and hands are not up to such precise work anymore, but she'd patiently walked him through the process of cutting out a pattern and explained a few simple stitches. The costumes are no big deal for a bunch of small-town, Midwest housewives, would've been no big deal for Mama.

_He_ can't sew for spit.

He clumsily ties off the last stitch, biting back a curse when he manages to stab his thumb with the needle, and finally straightens from his crouch. His back is aching, and his eyes hurt from squinting at the pink fabric for two days straight. Sara-Beth slides the bunny ear headband on and proudly twirls around on the chair.

It looks, he reflects wryly, like his baby sister has tossed the skin of a Muppet someone slaughtered with a rusty soupspoon over her head.

There is not a single straight hem on any part of it and even to his unpracticed eye the stitches look loose and precarious. As Sara-Beth twirls, he also realizes that she's going to have to keep her pants on underneath it. Jesse comes ambling in from the living room, and as soon as he catches sight of the pink monstrosity, he bursts out laughing.

"Holy cow, EJ…what'd ya do?" he giggles, collapsing against the doorframe.

"Shut up, Jess!" Sara-Beth demands, stomping her little foot. The chair creaks ominously.

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" he interrupts loudly, scooping Sara-Beth up and tossing her over his shoulder. She giggles loudly, ire at Jesse instantly forgotten. If only it was always that easy. "We ain't got time fer this…Jess, go get Sara-Beth strapped into th'truck."

He sets the little girl down, checks to make sure he didn't damage the costume too badly (not that there's a lot he can do about it if he _did_) and then shoos the two out the back door. Sara-Beth grabs Jesse's hand and skips happily behind him, her golden blonde pigtails bouncing and little tufts of fuzzy pink fabric trailing in her wake.

He sighs heavily, scrubbing his hands over his face. He hasn't had time to wash the dishes yet, and the stove is covered with several greasy pots and pans. He has an English paper that's due on Monday and he hasn't even started it, yet. He really doesn't have the time to go and sit for three hours at a Parent Night, tonight, but Granny has been fighting off a cold for the past few days and he doesn't want her to try and drive out to the school. The smart thing to do would be to just stay home and call the kids' teachers the next day.

But Sara-Beth was so excited to be in a real play.

So, he piles his siblings into the truck, squeezing Sara-Beth's booster seat into the middle of the bench. He double times it to the school, over the service roads in a few neighbors' fields at different points, but he gets there in time for Sara-Beth to be whisked off to the gym by one of her class Volunteer Mothers. He tries to ignore the way Mrs. Gatling's eyes widen as she takes in Sara-Beth's costume. He wanders into the school with Jesse, and dutifully does the rounds in both his and Sara-Beth's classrooms.

This is the part he hates. He listens politely as their teachers talk with him about reading comprehension, attitude, and test scores. Sara-Beth already knows her letters and can read simple words…Jesse _doesn't_ read so well, but seems to have a true aptitude for math. Sara-Beth needs to work on sharing and Jesse has a bit of a temper (and he really tries to act surprised and dismayed…but honestly, Mr. Harris taught _him_ in fourth grade. Is the man really shocked that one of the Spencer boys has a temper?).

Through it all they watch him with sad, pitying eyes. The teachers pat his shoulders and tell him what a good person he is for taking such care of his siblings. How nice it is that Jesse and Sara-Beth are always so clean and polite and well-mannered—occasional temper tantrums notwithstanding.

As if letting his brother and sister fend for themselves with Granny was ever an option.

As if his mama raised such a simpleton that even things like good manners and regular bathing were in danger of falling by the wayside.

He grits his way through it, swallowing the bitter swill of their pity, and silently swears to himself that someday they will be more than 'those poor Spencer kids.'

He and Jesse are milling around in the gym, taking shameless advantage of the tables of punch and baked goods, when he catches sight of Mrs. Gatling hurrying towards them. He can tell by the look on the plump woman's face that something is wrong, and his stomach drops a little. Sara-Beth had been fine when he left her—surely she couldn't have gotten sick in just a half-hour? Had she fallen? Had she gotten lost? Visions of puddles of vomit and broken bones are dancing in his head when Mrs. Gatling rushes up to them, her face red and slightly sweaty.

"Eliot, honey, ya' gotta come talk some sense into Sara-Beth," the older woman puffs, laying one hand on his arm. "That girl is pitchin' a right fit!"

"Ma'am?" he asks blankly, even though he is already shoving his plate and cup of punch into Jesse's hands.

"Landsakes, ya'd think someone asked her ta' drink poison!" Mrs. Gatling's voice is a mixture of indignation and surprise.

"Ma'am, I don't understand…is Sara-Beth okay?" Mrs. Gatling begins pulling him back through the crowd of parents and students, and she barks a short laugh that lacks any real humor.

"Lord, jus' come see for yerself!"

She drags him up onto the small stage that takes up one end of the gym, and behind the simple cardboard scenery. About twenty small children are huddled together, and a small part of him notes that each and every last one of them is wearing a rabbit costume ten times more presentable than his effort. Even before they get to wherever they are going, he has a pretty good idea of what the problem is. Over the steady murmur of the crowd in the gym and the excited chatter of kindergarteners he can hear the distinctive sound of Sara-Beth Spencer screaming bloody murder while crying her eyes out.

"I…don'…WANNA!" He winces at the volume she achieves and silently prays that whatever is wrong, it can be sorted out in the next five minutes.

Mrs. Gatling finally lets go of his arm as they step around a tree that appears to be constructed of paper towel tubes and pipecleaners, and he is presented with a scene the likes of which he _really_ does not want to deal with now. Sara-Beth is standing defiantly in front of her teacher and two other volunteers, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face is red and splotchy, and snot is running freely down her nose, dripping onto the disaster of a costume. Miss Shelley looks harried and out of sorts, and the volunteers are clucking their tongues and shaking their heads in a way that irritates him to the core.

As soon as he steps into view, Sara-Beth bolts towards him, and he automatically leans down to catch her, scooping her up and resting her weight against his hip. She throws her arms around his neck in a stranglehold and even as well-versed as he is in 'kiddie-meltdown-speak' he can barely understand a word as she sobs against his neck.

"Hey now, darlin', what's this about, huh?" He runs a soothing hand up and down her back.

"I…w-wanna go h-home, Elly!" Sara-Beth gasps. Helplessly, he turns his gaze to Miss Shelley. The woman sighs and steps forward, lightly gripping his elbow and leading him a few steps away from the other two women.

"I honestly don't know what happened…Mrs. Hunt made some extra costumes and brought them in, just in case one of the kids spilled something or forgot theirs. She was just asking Sara-Beth if she'd like to wear one instead of—" Miss Shelley breaks off suddenly, a light blush rising on her pretty face as she realizes what she was about to say. He chuckles ruefully.

"Yeah. Sorry 'bout that, ma'am…tried my best, but I ain't exactly a seamstress."

"No, _I'm_ sorry, Eliot…I should've thought about—well, no help for it now. Anyway, one minute Mrs. Hunt was asking if Sara-Beth wanted one of the spares, and the next, Sara-Beth was screaming her head off."

Throughout the exchange, Sara-Beth is shuddering against him, hot tears soaking into the neck of his t-shirt. The crying and the pleas to just go home show no sign of abating, no matter how much he shushes. Finally, he sighs and casts an apologetic look at the teacher.

"Think I better just take 'er home, if ya don't mind, Miss Shelley. I'll make sure she apologizes ta' Mrs. Hunt on Monday."

Miss Shelley's face is a comical mix of concern and relief, and he smiles at her crookedly. "I don't want her to miss out on the play—" the woman begins, but it is a half-hearted protest at best. With twenty other five year olds running amok, she really doesn't need to deal with one of them having a breakdown.

"S'okay…she needs ta' learn she can't act like this an' still do the fun stuff. I'm real sorry for the trouble."

She shoots him a weak smile, and then there is a loud crash behind them and she is scurrying away, leaving him holding his still-crying sister. He looks over at the volunteer mothers again, feeling his ears burn as he catches their disapproving looks. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to snap at them, and turns back to exit the stage.

He snags Jesse from the buffet table, and tries hard not to try and calculate just how many chocolate chip cookies the boy has consumed. They leave the gym just as the strains of 'Here Comes Peter Cottontail' start up over the loudspeakers, and he carries Sara-Beth all the way to the truck. Her sobs subside to little hiccups by the time he gets her strapped back into her booster seat and as he pulls out of the parking lot, she reaches over and tugs at his sleeve.

"Elly…ya' mad?" she asks hesitantly, and he very deliberately takes a few breaths before he answers. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to get Sara-Beth to the play—and though he doesn't begrudge her any of his time, there were other things he could've been doing. He's tired down to his bones and he's still got a ton of schoolwork to do before Monday rolls around again.

"I ain't happy, Sara-Beth, no. What'd ya' go an' do that for, huh? I thought ya' wanted ta' be a rabbit in the play."

A mulish expression settles on his sister's small face. "Don't wanna be in th't stupid play! Mrs. Hunt's a _mean_ lady!"

"Sara-Beth!" he exclaims, shocked. "Ya' don't talk 'bout a grown-up like that! Heck, ya' don't talk 'bout _anyone_ like that, ya' hear me?!"

"But Elly--"

"But nothin'!"

Jesse has been watching the exchange with avid interest, and finally cannot keep his nose out of it any more. "Dang, Sara-Beth, what's th' big deal? She just wanted ya' t'have a nicer costume. Shoulda' taken it…that one's the sorriest-lookin' thing I ever saw."

He feels Sara-Beth stiffen beside him and for the second time that night is treated to undeniable proof that his baby sister's lungs are functioning just fine.

"**Don't ya' say that! My Elly made it!" **Sara-Beth shouts. "That lady said _mean_ things 'bout my costume, but Elly made it fer me an' I wanted ta' wear HIS!" Her voice cracks on the last word, and a fresh batch of tears spill over her cheeks. Jesse's mouth falls open and he actually flinches back from the sheer anger in Sara-Beth's normally sweet voice.

A thrill of surprise runs through him as well, and he pulls the truck over to the side of the deserted road. Shifting sideways in his feet, he gently puts his hands on Sara-Beth's small shoulders. "That what this is all 'bout?" he asks softly.

Sara-Beth sniffles and nods miserably. "Mrs. Hunt was talkin' 'bout my costume while Miss Shelley was gettin' the music. Said it was s-shameful. But ya' worked hard on it an' I think it's pretty!"

Behind Sara-Beth, Jesse's face takes on an indignant cast. The boy will tease her within an inch of her life, but God help anyone _else_ who makes his little sister cry. For a moment, he is just as angry. What right did that woman have to say something like that where Sara-Beth might hear? The anger, though, is quickly overridden by a warm rush of affection. Sara-Beth has talked about nothing _but_ that play for a solid week. To insist on walking away from it just because one of her teacher's helpers didn't want her to wear the costume _he _made…well.

He smiles at his sister, and she sniffles once more before shakily returning it. "Ya' still mad at me?" she asks softly. He rights himself in his seat, shaking his head.

"Nah," he replies, putting the truck back into gear. "Ya' know I can't stay mad at ya' fer long."

He pulls back onto the road, and Sara-Beth leans her head against his shoulder. After a moment, he hears Jesse shift closer. The boy leans in close to Sara-Beth.

"Ain't got nothin' t'be ashamed of," Jesse says seriously. "I wouldn't a' been in no stupid play, either!"

Sara-Beth giggles softly, then turns her head and plants a smacking kiss on his bicep.

These days, he feels as though he has been tossed into the middle of the ocean and left behind. There is no hope of relief or rescue and the water just keeps getting colder, the waves rougher. It's times like this, though, that give him the strength to keep treading water.


	4. While the Getting's Good: Present

Heyas,

Wow, this was a stubborn chapter. I'm kind of trying to break out of my "pile the angst on with a trowel" thing I usually do with fanfic, and I had a hard time with the voices. Particularly Hardison's. He has a...unique way of speaking, shall we say? And the first draft of writing this, my GOD his dialogue looked so racist :( Anyway, I think I got it, but would love some concrit either way.

Also, out of curiosity, what are people more interested in seeing in these snippets? 'Cause I have a lot of 'em floating in my head...I want to explore how Eliot got into the retrieval business and why he knows how to fight so well...I want to explore what might have happened between him and the siblings I gave him...I want to explore how his friendship might have deepened with Hardison and Parker (and I really want to try and write one where he's teaching Hardison how to fight)...but what sounds good? Do y'all like the alternating back and forth between past and present? Ideas are always welcome :)

Disclaimer: I am in no way involve with Leverage or any registered trademarks thereof. No money is echanging hands and I would dearly love it if no one sued me.

* * *

He should get out now. That's all there is to it. He can't remember the last time he was in one place for this long, and there are very good reasons for that. His instincts whisper to him almost all the time now, telling him he's getting in too deep, that they've been too lucky, that something is bound to go wrong in a big way, and soon…and if he's still there when it happens he might not be able to clean it up. He should just buy a plane ticket and put LA behind him for a while.

It's been two months since he ripped through the ice-covered streets of Chicago on a damn motorcycle, pursuing the group of lowlifes who'd taken Sophie hostage. A new scar decorates his side just below his ribs, the first permanent souvenir he's gotten from one of their jobs. He doesn't mind the scar—it's not like he doesn't have dozens of others scattered on his body. And each one, in its own way, is a badge of honor for him…a reminder of times that he's beaten the odds and been strong enough to survive a situation that probably should've killed him. _That _scar, though, is also a glaring reminder of the promise he'd made himself on the night he received the injury.

He was going to start regaining his distance, cut off the ties he was starting to form to their little group before they got any stronger. He was going to take some of the private jobs he was still getting offered, get out of the country for a few weeks and let the group get on without him for a gig or two. He was supposed to be back to his usual status of having one foot out the proverbial door by now, ready, willing, and able to just disappear at a moment's notice. He doesn't need _people_ around him…he hasn't for almost half his life.

The others had even seemed to be making it easy for him. He'd spent so long relying on only himself he'd actually forgotten what it was like to be constantly confronted with other people's quirks, foibles, and personalities. As much as he had come to respect their little group and the skills each person brought to their collective table—a lot of the time they just really irritated him. Hardison with his geek-speak and his weird sci-fi fetishes, Sophie and her never ending dance with Nathan, Parker and her….Parker-ness.

And Nathan....

He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said Nate's was a bad story. Man had demons. Big, hulking, slavering demons that dogged his heels every step of the way. It was a hard road that had been set before Nathan Ford. But frankly, he's seen men with harder roads and bigger demons and they'd still managed to handle themselves without looking for answers in the bottom of a liquor bottle.

That's a ticking time bomb right there, and sooner or later it is going to blow up in their faces. And as much as he hates to see Better to get out now, while the getting is good. He is very firm in that opinion.

So, when he and Hardison are forced to pull a late night at the office getting intel together for a job, he really can't explain what happens next.

It's after eight and the others have all gone…wherever it is they go when they're not here. They're supposed to be doing work—they've got a week's worth of surveillance to go through and Nate wants assessments of the mark's computer and security resources. A _whole_ week's worth of video, pictures, and audio to sort through.

Nathan's footsteps are fading down the hallway, and he and Hardison just share a split-second glance.

Within ten minutes, the conference table is pushed back against one wall, the sinfully comfortable couch is dragged in from the waiting room, a truly impressive number of bottles—a nice German lager he keeps in a mini-fridge in his office for him, and the by-now standard Jones orange soda for Hardison—are scattered within easy reach, and Hardison is scrolling through what has to be five hundred channels of glorious high def.

He growls softly as Hardison tries to stop on a rerun of Stargate: Atlantis, and then growls again as he realizes that he actually recognizes that it was a rerun of Stargate: Atlantis. In quick succession they reject Criminal Minds (because yeah, criminal profilers are just creepy), Ocean's 11 (not nearly as much fun when Parker isn't there pointing out all the ways she could've done it better), and American Idol (just because). Eventually, they settle on college basketball—Ohio State vs. UNC—and settle in for a few hours of studiously avoiding responsibility.

"See now, man…_this_ is what I'm talkin' about! This is how you do overtime at the office!" Hardison collapses onto the couch, stretching his tall frame out with a satisfied groan. His Blackberry appears in one hand and one dark eyebrow rises in inquiry. "Whatcha say….Meat Lovers? Supreme?"

He pauses with his beer raised halfway to his lips. "Pizza Hut?" he asks incredulously. At Hardison's nod, his hand snaps out and snatches the device away. "Give me that."

Hardison flinches a bit, the way all of them but Parker still do when he demonstrates how fast he can actually move, but relaxes as he does nothing more threatening than punch in a number from memory. It's certainly not practical to make anything himself tonight…the kitchen in the office is nice, but the only four food groups that have found their way into the cupboards and 'fridge are caffeine, booze, chocolate, and pork rinds. Still, damned if he's going to subject himself to the grease pit of Pizza Hut.

_Zucca's_ picks up on the third ring and he grins as he realizes the owner himself is taking a turn at the phones. He exchanges greetings with Matteo, politely asks after his wife, and orders an extra-large thin crust with sausage, onion, and extra cheese, garlic bread, and two sides of the mushroom ravioli.

All in rapid-fire Italian.

When he hangs up after rattling off the address of the office, Hardison is staring at him as if he's suddenly sprouted a second head.

"What?" he asks sharply.

"Nothin', nothin'…let me guess. You dated an exchange student?"

He tilts his head and remembers weeks spent whispering through a tiny crack in the wall that separated his cell from that of an Italian smuggler in a filthy, stinking prison in the bowels of some remote Eastern European province. He'd advanced from "I are American, please where your bathroom?" to something approaching fluency in a little under a month, through sheer desperation for some kind of distraction while he waited for a broken ankle to heal enough for him to escape.

"Yeah. Somethin' like that."

That look never fails to both amuse and annoy him. On the one hand, it's kind of funny that it still shocks these people that he knows how to do more than cave someone's face in. On the other hand…he can do a con just as well as the rest of them. He's conversant—if not if not entirely literate—in Spanish, German, and Italian and he can order a beer, compliment a pretty lady, or tell someone he's gonna kick their ass in a handful of others. It takes _brains _to do what Sophie, Hardison, and Parker do and he really doesn't understand why they assume his particular neck of the criminal woods is different.

Hardison chuckles, saluting him with the soda bottle. The food arrives just before the end of the second period and they tear into it as though it's the first meal they've had in weeks. He even finds himself good naturedly teasing Hardison about his damn near pornographic moans of ecstasy as he bites into one of Matteo's pizzas for the first time.

It's the end of the third period before he actually realizes he's having a really good time. Hardison is surprisingly good company when he's not spewing out technobabble or talking about who's going to play the eleventh Doctor like they're picking a new pope or something. They whoop and holler their way through the game, argue over the calls, and demolish a meal that should have been able to feed a family of four. It's…nice. He can't actually remember the last time he had a really great evening of "guy time" that didn't involve busting heads.

And okay, yeah, maybe that has something to do with why the others think that's all he does.

When the game finally ends—and from the way Hardison is cursing, one would think he'd had money riding on the outcome—he just sinks back against the sofa and surveys the mess they've made of the conference room. Napkins, plates, and the takeout containers carpet the floor in front of the couch, along with enough bottles that he's now sure Hardison either has a hollow leg or a bionic bladder. He himself has made respectable inroads into the six pack he'd brought in from his office, enough that the world is pleasantly mellow around the edges. Not that he's drunk. He hasn't actually been _drunk_ since getting jumped in that bar in Seoul in ninety three. And even if he did still indulge to that level, it'd take a hell of a lot more than a few beers. But yeah, he's feeling pretty relaxed.

They make a token effort at clean up. The effort mostly consists of nudging the trash they can reach without moving from the couch into a single pile…but they do make an effort. Afterwards, they simply sit in companionable silence, sipping on their drinks.

"Ya' know…we _are _gonna have to get some work done," Hardison says eventually, making absolutely no effort to rise from the couch. He glances over at the other man and snorts.

"Yeah, have fun with th't." He takes another long pull of his beer as Hardison shoots him an indignant look.

"Boss is gonna wan'cho input too, there, Goldilocks."

"Security team runs around with AK-47 knockoffs from Mozambique, twenty minute intervals in th' perimeter patrols like clockwork, an' there's only four of 'em know how t' actually fight. All local talent, prob'ly police academy rejects or ex-cons. Harrison likes t'flash his money 'round, but he ain't spendin' it on security. Closest thing they got ta' strategy is point n' shoot…Parker c'n get around 'em with her eyes closed."

Hardison stares at him a moment. "Dude…you watched, like, two minutes of surveillance footage and that just showed 'em changin' shifts! I was there!"

He shrugs, and Hardison takes another large swig of soda.

"A'ight, times like this I just gotta say, _man_ I am glad you're on our side."

That startles a laugh out of him, though he's not quite sure what he's laughing at. Seems like there should be something ironic about criminals talking about what a good thing it is that they're on the same side.

"So, we got a bunch a' hopped up rent-a-cops with big guns and somethin' to prove. Awesome, really, just awesome. I am _excited_ to be a part of this." The sarcasm is thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Could be worse," he says with another philosophical shrug. "Those guns'r pretty cheap knockoffs…accuracy's gonna be shot ta' hell, and they got a tendency ta' jam up."

Hardison's brow furrows and one side of his mouth draws up, curiosity lighting his eyes. "Y'know, for someone who don't like guns, you sure ain't got a problem goin' all Obi-Wan Kenobi around 'em."

It takes a moment to process the reference, and when he does, he laughs wryly. "Don't like 'em. Don't mean I don't know how ta' use 'em."

"Yeah, why is that? And don't gimme all that 'specific range of efficacy' crap 'cause that right there? That's some bull, brotha." There is no judgment in Hardison's tone, only a genuine curiosity…as if the other man is really just interested in learning something about him.

And maybe it's the beer, or the late hour, or the fact that it's been so long since he felt comfortable enough to let his guard down even a little bit. Whatever it is, when he answers, it's with genuine honesty.

"They're too easy." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hardison freeze with the soda bottle halfway up to his mouth.

"Too easy?" Hardison repeats, as though he isn't sure he's heard correctly. "Whoa, whoa, hold up…what, like, you wanna be up close and personal when you doin' your maimin' and cripplin'? That's just…man, that is all _kinds_ of messed up." Hardison's whole body shudders in one of those extravagant gestures that is such a counterpoint to his own economy of movement that it actually makes him edgy.

"Hardison—"

"Like, seriously, I knew you wasn't exactly Mr. Rogers here, but damn!"

"Hardison—"

"All that nastiness up in here? Somethin' wrong wit' you man, somethin' _wrong_ wit' you."

"Hardison!" He means it to be a warning growl, a simple, unmistakable signal that the conversation is now over and Hardison should leave it alone right the hell now.

This is why he doesn't like explaining himself to other people—nine times out of ten he'll pick the wrong words, or something that makes sense in his head just sounds messed up out loud, or something will happen and he just leaves them with the wrong impression. As Hardison's rant cuts off, though, he is shocked to find that he doesn't _want_ the younger man to walk away with the wrong impression. And instead of just shutting Hardison up and storming out of the office…he keeps talking.

"Just what do ya' think I do, exactly?"

Hardison's brow furrows in confusion. "Uh…you hit things?"

He snorts derisively and shoots Hardison a _look_.

"You hit things really, really well?" Hardison amends hastily.

"I do the nasty jobs, all right? I'm the one goes an' gets 'is hands dirty for people who don' wanna. I _hurt _people for a livin'. It's what m'good at. Hell, I like it."

He pauses, and slugs back the rest of the bottle in his hands, even though the brew doesn't taste nearly so good as it did five minutes ago. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there's a little voice demanding to know what the hell he's doing.

"But other guys who do what I do?" A harsh, bitter sound escapes his throat, something that is not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. "They don't just hurt people. They don't care anymore. I'm not a good guy, an' I ain't got no problem with that. But some a' those guys…there's somethin' _gone_ inside 'em, man. And the killin's easy. There's been people I killed…but never someone who wasn't tryin' ta' kill me first. Never someone who didn't have a chance ta' defend himself. I don't want t'be like…I don't want it ta' be easy."

It's quite possibly the most words he's ever said to Hardison—to any of them—in one go. It's also quite possibly the most candid he's ever been with any of them. And for the second time that night, Hardison is looking at him like he's never seen him before. He slides his gaze away from the other man's dark eyes, staring resolutely ahead at the screens, and it is only through sheer force of will that he doesn't shift uncomfortably.

"Anyway. That's why I don't like guns," he mutters quickly. Before Hardison can say anything, he heaves himself off of the couch. Without looking at the other man, he gathers up an armful of the trash and stalks towards the kitchen.

He dumps the bottles and takeout containers in the trash, slamming the lid of the can down like he's got a grudge against it, all the while berating himself internally. What the hell? Seriously, what the hell was that? This right here is just reason number five hundred and something that he should leave. He is getting sloppy here, complacent. A year ago, he'd rather have died than let his guard down like that. What had possessed him to even open his mouth?

He rakes one hand back through his hair and silently vows that he is getting on the next plane out of LA. He'll go to England, or Japan, or Australia…or maybe he'll just take that job in Colombia. It's been a while since he tangled with South American drug cartels—that's always a good workout. Things are just getting too complicated here.

He walks back out of the kitchen and retrieves his jacket from his office. His part of the job is done; there's no reason to stick around and watch Hardison do his hacker thing. He'll give his report to Nate in the morning and then inform the man that he's leaving. If he catches an afternoon flight, he can be in Colombia by that evening.

"You headin' out?" It's a testament to how deeply he is involved in his thoughts that he doesn't hear Hardison following him from the back offices into the waiting room.

He refuses to entertain the notion that his instincts have just labeled Hardison as 'safe' and therefore he's not registering the man as a possible threat.

"No point in stickin' around," he says gruffly. "You have fun with the surveillance, now." His tone is sharper than he really intends for it to be, but Hardison seems unaffected. The other man nods slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. He stops in the doorway that separates the waiting room from the rest of the office and leans his tall frame against the doorjamb.

Hardison waits until he's halfway out the door before speaking again. "Hey Eliot?"

"What?"

"Nothin' just…you're, like, one bad dude and stuff. I mean, you're a badass sonuvabitch an'—"

"Don't you be talkin' 'bout my mama like that," he interrupts, and it is only half a joke.

"Right. Sorry. Anyway, with like, the moves and the hair and the—the" Hardison trails off and punches the air a few times. He cannot help but note that the other man telegraphs his moves like nobody's business. "You know?"

"Hardison, point?"

"I just, y'know—" Hardison waves one hand vaguely in the air, jamming the other deep into the pocket of the baggy cargo pants he's wearing. "You're not. Y'know, like those other guys you was talkin' 'bout. You're not. And ya' never would be." Hardison takes a few quick steps backwards, as if he's afraid of getting hit or something, but his voice is deadly serious.

For a moment, all he can do is stare at the younger man.

Hardison clears his throat nervously. "Right. So. I'm gonna go watch surveillance videos…maybe torrent some Torchwood. You can go, uh, do whatever is you do and I'll see ya' tomorrow. Okay? Okay."

Hardison vanishes back down the hallway before he can say anything, and he is left staring at the retreating man's back. He curls his hand around the doorknob, and shakes his head slightly.

"Too many. Too many complications," he sighs.

He should get out now. That's all there is to it. He can't remember the last time he was in one place for this long, and there are very good reasons for that. He should just buy a plane ticket and put LA behind him for a while.

But…before he does, he should probably at least make sure Hardison can throw a decent punch.


	5. Chicken Soup for the Soul: Present

Heyas,

Wow, this one came out fast...I'm kind of proud of myself :) Many thanks for the reviews...I am so pleased that people are liking this.

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with leverage or the registered trademarks thereof. This is all in fun and no money is exchanging hands.

* * *

They're not particularly concerned when Parker doesn't show up at the office for a couple of days and they can't reach her on her cell. There's at least three gallery openings, a traveling antiquities display, and a diamond trade show going on within a sixty mile radius of LA and Parker had been looking a little twitchy lately. Well…twitchi_er_. If they really need to get in touch with her, Hardison can just track her cell or her comm.

On the fourth day with no contact, though, and no breaking news about any impossibly daring heists, they start to get worried. Well…Hardison and Sophie start to get worried. Nate says to give it a week before they assume something is wrong.

_He's_ pretty convinced that in the department of taking care of oneself, Parker is almost as good as he is.

They're between jobs at the moment—a phenomenon that is becoming increasingly rare as word gets around that there is now a new recourse for those the law has failed. Nate and Sophie are behind closed doors in Nate's office, supposedly screening some possible new clients, but with those two it's hard to tell. Hardison is ensconced with his computers, cleaning up a few loose ends from their last job. Something about security footage in one of the parking garages.

He himself is taking the opportunity to do a little cleaning. He smiles a little as he rubs the lightly oiled cloth over the gleaming blade of his favorite boot knife. He's always enjoyed the soothing, repetitive motions of weapons care. The peace of mind that comes from knowing that no matter where he is in the office, there's a well-maintained instrument of destruction within easy reach is nice, too. Just in case.

He's just set the boot knife down and is reaching for the next—a wicked little switchblade that fits neatly into the palm of his hand—when Hardison bursts through his office door without knocking.

"Yo, Eliot, man I gotta favor to—whoa, that's a lot of knives." Hardison jumps a little, his eyes going comically wide. He glances down at the array of blades spread out on an old canvas cloth he's rolled out on the desktop.

"Still need ta' get the ones in your office an' the kitchen." And the bathroom…it's been at least a week since he cleaned the one hidden in the toilet tank. Rust is a real worry with that one.

"Wait, what? My off—_my _office? When did you even…no, you know what? I don't wanna know."

He looks up at Hardison and deliberately spins the switchblade in a complicated and dizzying combination that makes it look like the knife is flying through his fingers. Hardison narrows his eyes and stabs a finger at him.

"Somethin' _wrong_ wit' you. Seriously."

He smirks and flips the switchblade in the air, catching it neatly and setting it aside. "What's up, Hardison?"

"Huh? Oh. Oh yeah, look. Much as I hate to take you away from, y'know, makin' sure we covered if we ever get attacked by ninjas or the Highlander or somethin', can you do me a favor?"

"Depends on the favor," he says mildly. The last time Hardison had asked him for a favor, it had involved standing in a scarily long line for tickets to some gaming convention. Apparently computer geeks took the debut of new consoles very, very seriously. He'd actually had to defend his place in line a few times—not that it had taken much.

"Look, I can't raise Parker on the comm _or_ get her on the cell. Ain't been no hits on any of her credit cards or false ID's—"

"The ones that ya' know 'bout," he interrupts, and Hardison rolls his eyes.

"No hits on anything for, like, three days, her fingerprints haven't been run on any database, there's no one matchin' her description at the hospitals…"

"So what is it ya' want me ta' do? Go door t'door? It's _Parker_, man. Ain't gonna find that girl 'less she wants ta' be found."

"Look, I'm gonna be here all day disappearin' security footage _which, _might I add, wouldn'a been a problem if _someone_ hadn't a' decided to go all Rambo in the parking garage." Hardison shoots him a glare and he shrugs, a little apologetically. "Anyway, just, would ya' please run by her apartment? See if she left a note or somethin'?"

Even if Parker were the type to leave notes informing them of her whereabouts, he's pretty sure she'd have the sense to leave them at the office…or the audacity to break into one of their places and leave the note on their pillow or something. However, when he looks at Hardison to inform him of this, the protest dies in his throat. The younger man looks _worried_, little creases forming at the corners of his eyes and an unhappy tilt to his mouth. And all right, it's probably nothing…Parker has undoubtedly seen something shiny and will be back just as soon as she has acquired it. Nate's timeframe of a week seems much more reasonable than four days to start getting worried about the woman.

But, if it'll make the guy feel better...

"What's the address?" he sighs.

* * *

The address, as it turns out, is a small condo in a gated community about half an hour away from the Leverage offices, and on the exact opposite side of town from his own apartment. Traffic is going to be a bitch by the time he gets out there, checks for any sign of Parker, and then gets back on the highway. Grimly, he decides that security footage or not, Hardison is going to owe him for this.

Some of the irritation is forgotten, though, as he nears the address Hardison had scribbled out for him on the post-it note stuck to the hacked keycard for the neighborhood security gate. The area is comfortably upper-class without being ostentatiously wealthy, the condos little cookie-cutter mirror images with only the most minimal individual decoration to differentiate between them. Easy access to the major highways and LAX. Neighborhood full of people that smile and wave politely at him as he drives past, and then promptly ignore him. From a normal perspective, the place Parker apparently lives at is nice. From the perspective of a thief…it's pretty damn ingenious.

Nice enough to be comfortable, not so nice that it'll attract the attention of a lot of _other _thieves. Perfect little suburban McMansion-type housing that'd make it very difficult for, say, angry policemen to zero in on a specific condo right away. Perfect openings for quick escape routes. Neighbors who will leave you alone as long as you keep your lawn cut and don't play loud music. This…this is impressive.

He pulls into the empty driveway of one of the single condos, noting that there is no garage, and no car parked on the curb either. He promised Hardison he'd at least look through the place, though, and for all he knows, Parker travels around LA on her zip lines, swinging from building to building like some wacked out version of Batman.

He gets out of his truck and walks up the drive, taking in the bland, beige siding on the condo and the postage-stamp sized lawn. No flowers or landscaping decorates the place, and there are no personal decorations hanging on the door. Plain, white curtains cover the large window facing the lawn. Not that he'd figured Parker for the Martha-Stewart type, but still…even he has a generic little "welcome" mat.

He's not expecting an answer, but he knocks anyway, his upbringing demanding at least the courtesy before he jumps to the B & E. Hardison has provided him with the code for the alarm the man had installed—the same type he'd allowed the hacker to install in his own place—but none of them had been too keen to leave a spare key at the office. It wasn't like all of them (well, except Nate) weren't perfectly capable of getting around any lock on the market if they needed to get into somebody's place.

He waits a couple of minutes before casually glancing around as he pulls a slim, palm-sized leather case from the back pocket of his jeans. No nail-file and credit card job here…this is going to require professional lockpicks.

He's not as good at this as Parker herself is, but he's pretty competent. Even so, it takes him a couple of minutes to crack the lock on Parker's front door. He curses softly as he finally hears the lock click, shaking his head. He puts the picks back into their case and shoves it back into his pocket, then opens the door and steps into the foyer.

He isn't sure what he was expecting but what he finds is…kind of creepy, actually.

It's a beautiful place…nice, open floor plan, gleaming hardwood floors, and if all the curtains weren't drawn the place would be getting tons of natural light. But there's nothing _in _it. The walls are stark white, completely bare of pictures or posters. There are no carpets or rugs on the floor. His footsteps actually echo as he walks down the short hallway that leads to the big, open living area.

"Parker? It's Eliot," he calls, just in case Parker _is _here. Girl owns a few handguns and knows how to use them. His voice echoes, too, bouncing off the bare walls. He's actually coming to the conclusion that Parker doesn't live here, and has never lived here when he finally finds some sign of habitation.

There's a comfortable-looking white leather couch sitting in the center of the living area, with a red afghan tossed over the back of it. A flatscreen TV is mounted on the wall opposite of it with a small entertainment center sitting underneath. There's a DVD player on center, but no DVD's are lying out that he can see. He glances over at the kitchen to his left and sees a single, generic coffee mug sitting on the counter next to a cheap coffeemaker. There are no other utensils or counter appliances that he can see.

Yeah. Creepy.

Not that his place is much better…but still. He at least has _furniture_.

A low groan from his left sends him spinning around, hand already reaching for the blade at his belt. It takes a fraction of a second for him to register the spill of long, blonde hair over the arm of the couch that had been out of his line of vision coming in and he's rushing forward, knife forgotten.

"Parker? Parker, hey, Parker!" He darts around to the front of the couch to find Parker curled into an impossibly small ball in the corner of it. She's wearing a loose black tank and a pair of black track pants, and part of the red afghan is bunched up around her ankles. He puts one hand on her shoulder and shakes her gently, concern welling up inside of him almost in spite of himself. For her not to have heard him knocking or entering her house… "Parker? C'mon, now, open those eyes for me."

She groans again, and now he takes note of the unhealthy scarlet flush on her cheeks and the sheen of sweat on her forehead. Blearily, she does open her eyes, blinking up at him in confusion and looking for all the world like a baby kitten that's just been woken from a nap. He expects her to flinch or freak out or _something_…Parker doesn't seem to take well to people being in her personal space. Instead, she reaches out with one slightly shaky hand and pokes him in the cheek.

Then, she throws up on his boots.

"Aw, Parker, Jesus!" he shouts, tumbling backwards in a move that is neither graceful nor effective. The bitter smell of vomit hits him and he ruthlessly clamps down on his own gag reflex.

"Noooo, don't yell," she whimpers pressing one hand to her forehead and he's abruptly seized with the feeling of having kicked a puppy.

A very, very sick puppy, and he has to snort at the irony of that particular phrasing.

"Damn, girl, how long this been goin' on?" He grimaces as he finally notices the little plastic trash can at the other end of the couch, an even nastier, stale odor wafting over from it that turns his stomach a little.

Parker squints at him, then reaches over and pokes him again, this time in the shoulder. "You're very solid," she says vaguely.

"I ain't a hallucination, Parker," he says sharply, the concern ratcheting up a few notches. Maybe he should take her to a hospital? "How long ya' been sick?"

"Mmmmm, what day is it?"

"Thursday," he grits out. Her brow furrows deeply.

"What happened to Wednesday?"

He stares at her incredulously for a moment, and then pulls out his cell phone. "Okay, that's it. We're goin' to the ER." He's just flipped it open when her small hand darts out and grabs his wrist with surprising strength. "Parker what—"

"No," she says firmly, her eyes lucid and completely serious behind the fever glaze. "No hospitals."

"Parker," he protests, but she stabs a finger at his face, cutting him off.

"No. You don't get to tell me what to do. Nice of you to show up, though. Was getting tired of the ponies." She shudders theatrically.

Maybe not entirely lucid.

"Okay, not touchin' that one with a ten foot pole. C'mon, Parker, don't make me throw ya' over my shoulder."

"No hospitals," she repeats in a tone that somehow manages to combine grim determination and childish pleading into one. "Why are you even here? You're not this nice."

He's not sure he's up to examining the reasons Parker would think someone barging into her house and threatening to bodily force her into a hospital is being 'nice,' and while it's true he's _not_ a nice person…he can't explain the little pang he feels when she says it.

"Hardison sent me," he says gruffly, finally rising from his crouch. He surveys the rather pathetic picture she makes—huddled up on the couch in her pajamas, long hair lank and unwashed, fever-bright eyes regarding him even more suspiciously than usual. He sighs. "All right, no hospitals. Think you're up to a shower while I clean this mess up?"

"Tried it…floor wouldn't hold still." She glares accusingly at said floor and he bites back a laugh.

"All right, I'll get ya' to the bathroom, but after that you're on your own." He toes off his soiled boots and leaves them on the floor, then reaches down and scoops Parker up into his arms.

She lets out a surprised little squeak, her whole body going stiff. She's tall enough that it's a little awkward, especially when she makes no move to hold onto him, but she hardly seems to weigh a thing and he carries her easily enough across the floor. After the first few steps, one arm goes around his neck gingerly, and he can feel her eyes boring a hole in the side of his head.

And yeah, he's totally just doing this because he'll catch hell with Sophie and Hardison if he just leaves her in this shape. That's it.

He makes his way through the rest of the condo, all of it in the same eerie, undecorated state. Apart from the couch and the TV, there's literally no other furniture in the place. It's almost a relief when he steps into the master bedroom and finds it to be something approaching normal. There's a queen-sized bed, at least, with a fluffy red comforter and matching pillows, and he sees actual clothes hanging in the walk-in closet as he passes it on the way to the bathroom.

The bathroom's as utilitarian as the rest of the place—apparently the bed is the only nod to creature comforts. He's used to women's bathrooms being covered in bottles, jars, and cans of various concoctions designed to do God-knows-what…but Parker has a bottle of shampoo, a bottle of conditioner, and a bar of soap. The towels and washcloths are high-quality Egyptian cotton, though, and he can only shake his head and wonder if there is anyone on Earth who's capable of understanding the way Parker's mind works.

There's no bathtub, but the shower is _nice_. Much nicer than the one he has in his own place. He sets her down gently on the toilet seat and pulls the glass shower door open, nodding to himself as he sees the low bench running along one wall. At least she won't fall and kill herself.

"All right, can ya' take it from here?" he asks, and he really hopes the answer is yes because that right there? That's _way_ above and beyond the call of duty.

To his relief, she nods slightly, watching him intently with an expression he's not sure he cares to put a name to.

"Okay…I'm gonna go clean up th'mess in the living room. Holler if ya' need anything." He beats a hasty retreat as her fingers start fumbling with the bottom of her tank, quickly making his way back into the living area.

It takes him a few minutes to find any cleaning supplies. He eventually locates a mop and a bucket that he's fairly sure came with the place. He doubts they've seen any use since Parker moved in. Within short order, he's got the disgusting puddle cleared up, and disposed of the other mess in the trash bin. He takes the bucket and his boots out onto the miniscule back porch and rinses them off as best he can, wrinkling his nose and just thanking Whoever that he hadn't worn his favorite pair today.

He can still hear the shower running as he steps back into the place, and in spite of himself he takes a wondering look around. Okay, he'd known Parker was a little out there, but this is almost…depressing. There is literally nothing in the place that even hints at the young woman living here. On a hunch, he opens the cabinets and finds exactly two generic blue plates, two bowls, another coffee mug that matches the one on the counter, and a couple of tall plastic juice tumblers. There's a single set of silverware in the drawers.

He goes through the rest of the cabinets, half-expecting to just find boxes of fortune cookies. There are other foodstuffs, but not much. Top Ramen, Chef Boyardee, microwave popcorn…it's like looking at the pantry in a college dorm. There's milk and orange juice in the fridge, and about twelve takeout menus in the drawer underneath the kitchen phone. He takes another slow look around and taps his fingers against his thigh.

He walks back towards the bedroom and just leans in the doorway, letting his eyes roam over the place. The air in here is stale as well, sour with the smell of illness and sweat, and he'd bet money the sheets on the bed haven't been changed since she got sick.

He's got a few things in the first-aid kit in his truck that should help—fever reducers and the like. Parker's mobile and coherent…for her, anyway. He's done his good deed, and now he can call Hardison and let him know their resident crazy girl is alive and well, more or less. His eyes fall on a bit of brownish fluff peeking out from under the bright red comforter and before he knows it he's crossed the room and tossed the covers back.

The stuffed rabbit staring up at him with beady plastic eyes has seen better days. The 'fur' has been rubbed bald in several places and each limb looks like it's been sewed on more than once. The ribbon around its neck is so faded it's impossible to tell what color it once was, and for Pete's sake, are those burn marks?

He thinks about the empty living area, the cabinets stocked with garbage and junk food, and the way Parker had poked at him, convinced he couldn't be real. His mind supplies him with other images…curly blonde hair just a shade darker than Parker's falling over another sweaty forehead, a tiny fist rubbing tiredly into eyes that were just as storm-blue as his own, and a whimpering little voice.

"_Elly, I don' feel good._"

Before he knows it, he's poking through the closet until he finds a large, empty duffle. He scans the racks in the closet quickly, choosing a few t-shirts and a pair of jeans at random and stuffing them into the bag. He backs out of the closet and heads over to the dresser, pulling open the second drawer from the top and finding several sets of comfortable sweats and pajamas. Finally, he pulls open the top drawer, and his face screws up in consternation.

Lord, his mama would kill him, going through a woman's underwear without her permission. It can't be helped, though, and so he pulls a t-shirt out of the bag and wraps it around his hand. Staring intently at the ceiling, he grabs an arbitrary handful of the various underthings in the drawer, praying to anyone that'll listen that he gets enough of the right things…'cause no way in hell he's going to check.

He shoves the t-shirt wrapped underwear into the bag and takes a final glance around the room. His eyes light on the rabbit, and some instinct prompts him to grab that as well. He doesn't let himself think about what in God's name he's doing as he stalks back out into the main living area, and then out to his truck. He tosses the duffle into the small backseat and rakes his hand back through his hair. It's _Parker_ for God's sake. The girl who likes to set things on _fire_ and jump off buildings for fun.

But he can't actually bring himself to just do what he knows is the smart thing and leave Parker to get over whatever bug she's got by herself. There's a mocking little voice in the back of his head that is just about falling over itself laughing at him, but he doesn't hesitate when he turns to go back inside the condo.

He can no longer hear running water when he enters again, and he heads back to the bedroom to find Parker sprawled out on top of the comforter on her bed. She's changed into a pair of grey sweats and curled herself around one of her pillows, her hair trailing in wet tendrils around her face. Her eyes are closed and her breathing a deep and regular, and when he glances into the bathroom he sees a little bottle of green syrup sitting on the counter. Ah, the joys of NyQuil.

"Parker?" he says softly, stepping over to the bed. "Hey, Parker?" She groans a little, pushing her face into the pillow, and there's a brief flash of _hurtclenchtight _in his chest.

"_Elly, I don' feel good." _

"Parker," he tries again. "C'mon, darlin', this ain't no place to be crashin' right now." The endearment slips out without his permission, and he's monstrously glad she isn't awake to hear it.

He shoots an accusing little glare at the bottle sitting so innocuously on the bathroom counter. Well, at least he knows what to do the next time she gets a little manic. Sighing, he gently slides his arms under her back and knees again.

* * *

He dumps the noodles he's just drained into a merrily bubbling pot of homemade chicken broth, trying to lose himself in the familiar, comforting rhythms of cooking. Unfortunately, he's very given to thinking and self-examination when he's cooking—part of the reason he likes it so much is it helps him quiet his mind enough to sort out thoughts—which is exactly what he doesn't want to do right now. He doesn't want to think about the young woman currently occupying his own damn bed, or the fact that he hadn't even felt all that put out as he made up the couch for himself to sleep on tonight.

He doesn't want to think about the fact that he's pretty sure he's not going to have any trouble sleeping with Parker a stone's throw away.

_Parker_.

There have been people he's trusted over the years…scant few, but there have been some. There have even been some he called friends. He'd trusted them with his weapons, with his money, with his _life_ on a few occasions…but he'd never brought any of them back to wherever he was staying. Never let them get _that_ far into his boundaries.

What in the blue hell has he gotten himself into, here?

The mocking voice is back, laughing its ass off, and an uncomfortable itch is starting on the back of his neck as he hears Aimee's soft, regretful voice in his head over and over again. "_I'm glad you found a family…" _

He'd brought Parker to his _house_.

Slow, shuffling footsteps alert him to the fact that he's no longer alone in his kitchen. He glances over his shoulder and finds Parker standing on the other side of the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the rest of his loft. She's leaning heavily on one of the stools and staring at him with somewhat wild eyes. Resolutely, he pushes his personal crisis to one side.

"I was in your bed," she says without preamble. "Why was I in your bed?"

He shrugs and dumps some diced chicken into the soup. "More comfortable th'n the couch," he replies. "I changed the sheets. Man, NyQuil really knocks ya' for a loop don't it?"

"This isn't my place."

"No," he agrees amiably. "S'mine."

"You put a post-it note on my forehead."

It takes him a moment to disengage from the one track of the conversation and hop onto the new one. Then he grins. –_Parker, _the note had read, _don't panic, don't steal anything, and don't come after me with a fork. I'll be in the kitchen. Eliot. _"Figured ya' wouldn't miss it that way."

Parker crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him hard, her face weirdly expressionless, but her eyes sparkling with suspicion. "This is kidnapping, you know."

He makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat. "Well damn, there goes my snow white reputation an' sterlin' police record. Door's over there an' ya' ain't handcuffed." He stirs the pot a few times and then moves over to another part of the counter to push a few slices of bread into the toaster.

"What are you doing?" she demands, and he spares a moment to wonder why the hell he thought this was a good idea.

"Makin' chicken soup an' toast."

There is a long pause, and then—

"You made me soup?" The words are soft and barely heard, and he's pretty sure there's a note of wonder lurking under the surface.

"Easy on th'stomach. Look if you don't wanna stay, don't. I'll call ya' a cab."

"I didn't say that," Parker says carefully. She leans a little further onto the barstool and he sighs heavily.

"Sit down before ya' fall down," he says, more gently than she is used to hearing him speak. He pulls a couple of bowls out of the cabinet above his head as he hears the scrape of the stool on the floor. When he turns around to face her, she is watching him with an expression not unlike the one worn by an unbroken horse being confronted by a bridle for the first time.

He lets the chicken and noodles heat through for a few minutes, then ladles some of the soup into the bowls. A piece of plain toast is propped on the edge of one and he sets the bowl before Parker with a flourish.

She stares at it as though she expects it to bite her.

He ignores the way her eyes are darting back and forth between him and bowl as he dips his spoon into his own soup. Evidently coming to the very correct conclusion that if he wanted her dead, he wouldn't have to bother with anything as subtle as poison, she hesitantly picks up her own spoon and takes a noisy, almost defiant slurp. He ducks his head slightly, letting the fall of his hair hide his smirk. Crazy she may be, but at least she was generally amusing.

"You want somethin' t'drink? I got some ginger-ale…or there's juice."

"Why are you doing this?" There's still the hint of suspicion in her voice, but now it is joined by confusion, and maybe something a little plaintive.

"Told ya', Hardison sent me."

"Yeah, and Hardison could totally make you take me back to your place and feed me soup."

He has to laugh a bit at the idea of Hardison _making_ him do anything.

But…if that's the case, just why _is_ she here? Hardison's the only one who's even seen his place, and that was just to update the security system. It's not like they hang out together after work. He raises his eyebrows briefly and shrugs with one shoulder.

"You try t'go a job like this, you're gonna be a risk. I take it personal when somethin's liable ta' get me killed." He spits out the standard explanation by rote. He's not ready to admit to himself that it's not really true anymore. Not ready to use words like "friend" and "teammate."

Or "family."

Not ready to be worried about someone else's welfare beyond how it can affect his personal chances of survival.

Parker stares at him for a few beats, and behind the fever and the…well, the _crazy_, there's something eerily perceptive. When she glances back down at her bowl, there's a soft little smile on her face, the sweet, genuine one they don't see all that often. And maybe she's not ready to use those words either.

They eat their soup in comfortable silence.

They're not particularly concerned when Parker doesn't show up at the office for a couple of days and they can't reach her on her cell. He doesn't come in, either, and they know she's being well taken care of.


	6. Matriculation: 18

Heyas,

I would like to take the opportunity to thank everyone who's been reviewing…I don't have a lot of free time on the internet to post individual replies, but I am terribly, terribly grateful that people seem to be enjoying this!

This one's a bit short, I'm afraid...and actually really depressed me :( But the angst bunny bit, so I went with it. This will probably be the last part of this for a week or so...I think the next couple parts are going to be longer efforts with actual contained storylines instead of just snapshots. Just trying to decide if I want to play in the present or do a flashback.

* * *

He sits on his rickety, twin bed and strokes the faded, blue patchwork quilt—the one Mama made him for Christmas when he was eight—with one hand. His best tie is hanging loose and unknotted around his neck and the collar of his Sunday shirt has so much starch in it, it's practically cutting into his flesh. He stares at his reflection in the warped, pitted surface of the old mirror hanging on the closet door. There's an open envelope on the bed beside him, and a thick sheaf of crisp, cream-colored paper in his other hand. _Congratulations on your acceptance into the University of Kentucky_, reads the first sentence on the first page. Even more important is the paper behind it, informing him he's been awarded an academic scholarship, the amount of which had made his eyes bug out. He takes a deep breath, and lets the thrill of victory run through him.

College. He got into college.

For a moment, just a moment, he closes his eyes and imagines what it would be like…to run down the hallway into the kitchen with the letter in his hand.

Mama would be standing at the stove, making breakfast while Daddy sat at the kitchen table with his coffee and newspaper. He'd sneak up behind her, and slowly reach over her head, dangling the envelope in front of her eyes. She'd see the return address, the big blue seal in the corner, and gasp a little, before snatching it out of his hand.

"_EJ? Oh…oh baby,_" she'd whisper, as she slowly pulled the letter out of the envelope with trembling, work-calloused hands. She'd read the words, and her hand would fly to her mouth, tears welling up in those piercing blue eyes that had been her gift to all three of her children an spilling down her soft cheeks. "_Oh my Lord! Oh, darlin'!" _

She'd look at him then, smile her beautiful, sunlit smile and her eyes would be so, so proud even as she tried futilely to wipe the tears away. She'd reach for him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his shoulder, hugging him as tightly as she could. Daddy would demand to know what all the fuss was about and she would just thrust the paper at him, laughing aloud.

Daddy would close his eyes for a moment, lean back in his chair, and though there would be no effusive words or tears, there would be such fierce pride in his face. All of Daddy's hard work, all of his years of sacrifice, all the late nights working at the garage…it would all be more than worth it to the man in that moment as he realized his son would be going on to greater things than he himself had dreamed of. One of Daddy's most cherished dreams for his children would come true in that moment, and _he _would have given that to the man.

Daddy would clap him on the shoulder, ruffle his hair in that way that was every bit as affectionate as his mother's enthusiastic embrace. He would declare that they were all going out to celebrate that night and….

And he swallows hard, blinking rapidly.

There is no point in thinking about how things could have or should have been. Down that road lies only pain he can't afford to let himself feel. He takes another deep breath, catching his bottom lip with his teeth. Slowly, he stands up and begins knotting the tie with easy, practiced motions. His suit jacket is hanging on the back of the bedroom door, along with the shiny maroon graduation robe. The mortarboard is out in the kitchen, and he can only pray that Sara-Beth hasn't decided to put stickers on it or something.

There's a soft knock at his door and then Jesse pokes his head into the room. The boy has shot up in the last year, and he can already tell that Jess is going to be the spitting image of Daddy. They both are…the same strong jaw, the same nose, same chestnut brown hair.

"_My two boys…Spencer through an' through," _Mama would sigh. The only thing that had ever marked them as hers were their eyes. She'd been so happy when Sara-Beth had come along, looking every inch a Nixon.

"Hey Jess, what ya' need?" he asks, jerking his chin in an invitation to enter. His little brother shuffles in, picking at the buttons on his sleeves and glaring at the tie as though it has done him some mortal offense.

"Man, I can't get this stupid thing tied right," he huffs, "an' Granny's tryin' ta' do Sara-Beth's hair up."

He feels one side of his mouth quirk upwards. Sara-Beth _hates_ it when their grandmother braids her hair, but is fortunately too polite to say so. "Hand it over," he replies, reaching out for the stubborn tie. "C'mere an' stand in front a' me."

"_Cross th' wide end over th' other end…all right, now pull 'er up through th' loop there…"_

"_C'mon Daddy, what I gotta wear this fer?" _

"_Practice."_

"_Practice fer what?" _

"_Practice fer when ya' got someone ya' want ta' impress. Man only gets ta' make a good impression once, EJ." _

"_That ain't no good reason ta' be tyin' a _noose_ around yer neck ev'ry day." _

"_Look on the bright side…yer mama's gotta wear heels." _

He guides Jesse's hands through the motions and tries very hard not to think about standing in the position Jesse is in now, Daddy standing behind him and doing exactly what he is doing. Jesse's face screws up into the exact expression his still does every time he pulls the knot tight, and within seconds of letting go, the boy is pulling at his collar. He smiles again and shakes his head.

"Hey EJ?" Jesse turns around to face him, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his good pants. The boy doesn't look at him, instead suddenly finding the floorboards very interesting.

Oh great, what had his brother gotten into now?

"Yeah?" he says warily. Jesse huffs a breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the motion.

"Just…M-mama an' Daddy'd be real happy today." The words are blurted out quickly, almost too fast to understand, and by the end of the sentence, Jesse's voice is suspiciously thick. "Th-they'd be real proud. An'…uh…me an' Sara-Beth are real proud a' ya." He can see the tips of Jesse's ears turning pink from embarrassment.

Silently, he reaches out and lays a hand on his brother's shoulders. "Thanks, Jess," he says seriously. The boy ducks his head and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.

"Anyway, Granny should be done with Sara-Beth by now…better get goin', right?"

"Yeah…yeah, go ahead. I'm right behind ya'."

Jesse grins at him, the expression a touch watery, and darts out the door. He watches his brother leave, listens to the sound of the boy's footsteps, and the muffled hum of the voices of his family in the kitchen. He glances over at the mirror again, and he can't help but wonder if his daddy _would_ be proud of the young man that is staring back at him. Of what he's done. What he's going to do. He hopes so…hopes with everything in him that he's done right by Jesse and Sara-Beth, the way his parents would have wanted him too.

He moves back over to the bed and sits down, scooping the precious letter up again and just feeling the weight of it in his hands. From the kitchen he hears Sara-Beth squeal in laughter at something Jesse's just said. Granny's thin voice rises in an admonishing tone, interspersed with several long, dry coughs. Those spells are getting more frequent, and each time it takes her a little longer to recover. There's a stack of bills on the kitchen counter that need to be paid and the truck is going to need new brakes soon.

He turns the letter over in his hands, glancing down at the bottom of the paper where the deadline for his acceptance of the university entry and scholarship is stamped in thick, black ink. The date passed a week ago. Jesse's voice reaches his ears again, shouting his name and calling that they are going to be late if he doesn't get a move on.

He takes a deep breath and lets the letter slide out of his fingers, into the waste basket beside the bed.


	7. A Practical Man: Present

Hey all,

Okay, I lied...this demanded to be written, and boy did I have some fun with it. :) What can I say, Hardison/Eliot banter is pretty awesome, and very amusing to write. Hope I got it right.

Just for amusement's sake...there is an OC appearing briefly in this part--with a very distinctive nickname. Identify the TV character this guy was based on, and I'll let you pick the parameters of the next bit of this :)

* * *

He's a practical man. There's something to those stereotypes about a level-headed, salt-of-the-earth mentality where he's from, and his parents were prime examples of that. And even if that weren't the case, anything in him that had been given to looking at things with anything but utter pragmatism had been effectively wiped out by a somber knock on his front when he was seventeen. Being in the retrieval business for the better part of twenty years has elevated that practicality to something that flirts pretty shamelessly with ruthlessness. He wouldn't go so far as to call himself ruthless…but he is a very, very practical man. So when he strides into Hardison's office one morning and throws a gym bag at the younger man, it's for purely practical reasons.

Hardison is sprawled out in his chair, legs up on the desk, and he sputters indignantly as the bag hits him in the chest. Hardison's got the desktop and his laptop both running, the former displaying a screen full of coding that makes his head hurt just looking at it and the latter filled with what looks like Spore.

God, _why_ can he recognize Spore?

He shakes his head, huffing slightly under his breath. Now's not the time. Hardison reels back, nearly falling off his chair, and a low chuckle rumbles in his throat.

"Man, what the hell!"

"Heads up," he says blandly, and Hardison glares at him.

"What is all—hey, this is mine!" The younger man snatches up the black gym bag and yanks the zipper open. Inside are a pair of baggy white basketball shorts and an old t-shirt. "And _these _are mine. Where did you…no. Naw, man, just no!"

Hardison looks up at him with an accusing glare and he shrugs, not at all apologetically, a smirk he knows to be of the shit-eating variety on his face. He holds up a palm-sized black box, the one Hardison had just taught him how to use a few weeks ago.

"You disarmed my alarm? _You_ disarmed _my _alarm?"

"Aren't ya' proud?"

Hardison's glare turns suspicious. "How long?"

The smirk falters somewhat and he clears his throat, glancing down at the floor. "Twenty minutes," he admits finally. Hardison averages forty five seconds with the device.

The younger man lets out a short bark of laughter, quickly stifled as he narrows his eyes. "Twenty min—twenty minutes? Minutes, like, sixty second increments? Well goddamn, computers a' the world rest uneasy." The tone is light and teasing, though, and lurking in the edges of Hardison's grin is something that _does _look suspiciously like pride.

"Get your stuff. We're headin' out," he orders curtly, crossing his arms over his chest. Hardison sits up a little straighter in his chair, and the younger man's eyes rake up and down his own body. He's dressed in loose navy track pants, a plain white t-shirt, and his hair is pulled back from his face. Instantly, Hardison's shoulders drop and the suspicion is back full force.

"Where we goin'?" he asks uneasily.

He just smiles.

* * *

The place they're heading to is about halfway between his loft and the office…and while the neighborhood he lives in is nice, and the neighborhood the Leverage office is in is nicer—well, the neighborhoods in between really aren't. He maneuvers his truck through the light afternoon traffic, eventually ending up on a street that is just starting to slide onto the wrong side of "seedy."

The ratio of pawn shops and liquor stores to quiet, well-run Mom & Pop businesses is starting to get a little high and every day it seems like there's more graffiti on dirty walls. A few cheap apartment complexes have gone up and started to attract the wrong kind of crowd.

The neighborhood has been predominantly African American for the past ten years or so, but like so many neighborhoods in LA, there's a quickly growing Hispanic population. Unlike many of those other neighborhoods, though, this place has managed to avoid a lot of the racial tensions that spring up in transitional neighborhoods. The buildings are still pretty well maintained. Kids still play on the sidewalks in relative safety and the residents are serious about their neighborhood watch duties. Bad elements are starting to seep into the place, but the people that live here are putting up a hell of a fight.

And leading the charge is the place he finally stops, pulling the truck into a cracked, weed-strewn parking lot. The building is a two story brick affair, sitting on a fairly large lot. It's seen better days—the brick is filthy, gone almost black in some places, and the mortar is starting to crumble along the foundation. The two basketball courts bordering the parking lot are topped with broken asphalt, and only one of the baskets has a net. A group of teenaged boys is playing what looks to be a truly cutthroat game. A faded sign above the front door of the place proclaims it to be _Taylor & Sons Gym and Recreation Center_, though as far as he can tell, no one named Taylor has been associated with the place since the late seventies.

"Whoa, Eliot, man, what we doin' here?" Hardison is glancing around their surroundings nervously, though he rather suspects the nervousness is directed at _him_ rather than their surroundings, as this isn't anywhere close to the roughest neighborhood Hardison has been in.

He grins at the other man, deliberately showing too many teeth and can't help but laugh when Hardison's expression goes from wary to outright alarmed. He opens the door and climbs out, trusting that Hardison will follow, and waves at a couple of the kids on the basketball court. They pause in their game to wave back, big smiles on their faces.

"Hey, yo Spencer!" one of them, a tall, gangly boy with a Honduran accent calls out in Spanish. "You teachin' a class today, man?"

He shakes his head and answers in kind. "Nah, just came ta' use the studio. Next week, though. Ya' gonna be there?"

Some of the younger kids laugh, as they always do when he speaks. According to them, his vocabulary and sentence structure are perfect, but the Kentucky drawl he just can't keep out of his voice makes him sound a little drunk when he talks.

"Hell, yeah." The kid does a quick boxer's shuffle, throwing up his fists in a near-perfect guard position.

"Kiss your Mama with that mouth?"

"Sorry!" The kid doesn't sound all that repentant, but there are some battles not worth fighting with a teenager. Let him catch those boys drinking behind the center again, though…

It takes him a moment to realize that Hardison is not behind him as he expected and he turns to find the other man frozen in the act of climbing out of the truck. His mouth is actually hanging open and his eyes are darting back and forth between him and the group of kids.

"_Teachin' a class?_" he repeats, incredulity thick in his voice.

"Didn't know ya' spoke Spanish," he says, deliberately avoiding the subject.

"Two years in high school, now what the hell you teachin' these kids?" Hardison gets over his paralysis and clambers the rest of the way out of the truck, slamming the door behind him and jogging over the parking lot to catch up. He shrugs as he resumes his trek toward the front door.

"The usual…guerilla tactics, small arms fire, smugglin' protocol." Hardison's eyes go wide for a moment, before he shakes his head.

"You do not." He turns back to the man and winks. "Eliot…Eliot man, don't play wit' me. You do not! Eliot!"

He proceeds into the gym without another word and the smirk on his face softens into something more genuine, some of his habitual tightness easing from his shoulders. Behind him, Hardison gives a low whistle. There are places closer both to his apartment and the office, but he enjoys the atmosphere here. The gym has all the usual trappings…various weight machines and a couple of treadmills, as well as a huge free weight area along the far wall. A couple of studios take up the back half of the building—one set up for dance and gymnastics, the other for martial arts. The place is a little run down…definitely needs a new coat of paint and there are some minor repairs that are waiting to be done. The equipment is well maintained, though, and the owner's a friend of his from the chess tournaments that go on once a month in the park near his place.

"Eliot! Wasn't expecting you today." And speaking of the owner…

"Hey, Town, how's it goin'?"

Luke "Downtown" Brown, Town to his friends, is an African American man in his mid-sixties. A retired cop, he more than anyone is responsible for keeping the neighborhood from sliding all the way into neglect. He lives and breathes the center, keeping it as a safe haven for the residents and is single-handedly responsible for yanking more than one of the neighborhood children off of a bad path. He can't help but respect what the man has done, and when Town had asked him if he would consider teaching some basic self-defense classes to some of the older rec kids, he hadn't been able to say no.

"Eh, it's goin', it's goin'." The man reaches out and shakes his hand enthusiastically, slapping him on the back so hard that he rocks forward a bit. "And who's this?" Town's eyes shift over his shoulder and Hardison clears his throat.

"Town, this here's Alec Hardison. He's a…colleague a' mine."

A knowing gleam enters town's dark eyes, and his grin turns sly. His eyes flick over Hardison with professional assessment "Colleague, huh? Well, anyone's okay by Eliot is okay by me. Good to meet you, son."

"Yeah, you too." Hardison is treated to the same back slapping handshake and when the younger man looks over at him, the _where the hell do you find these people? _is evident in his eyes.

"So what can I do for you boys today? Eliot, I think Chris is coming down later if you're looking to spar."

He tilts his head and cracks his knuckles a bit. "Nah, s'okay Town…that's what Hardison's here for."

"Yeah that's what…wait, what?"

* * *

The studio is well-appointed, and he arranged it to his personal liking a while back. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors on one wall are probably cleaner than any other piece of glass in the place, and the five hanging punching bags of various weights are brand new. Paid for via donation by an 'anonymous' benefactor. He knows Town knows who really bought them, but the man let him get away with it for the sake of the rec kids. He prefers to work out on the hardwood floors, but in deference to Hardion, he's dragged out the wrestling mat. He finishes stretching out, relishing the pleasant burn of muscles loosening up. Rolling his neck from side to side, he casts a look over at Hardison, who has plastered himself against the wall by the door and is watching him with all the trust an injured bird might show a snake.

It had taken him ten minutes to convince the younger man to even change into his gym clothes.

"All right, run this by me again how I'm s'posed to let you beat the crap outta me for my own good?"

"That's not what I said," he shoots back, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

"Oh no, you _said_ you gonna teach me how t'fight. Right, like I'm not gonna read 'tween those lines."

"Hardison, I'm not gonna beat th'crap outta ya' for your own good." Hardison's eyes narrow suspiciously, but he edges a little closer to the mat. "I'm gonna show ya' some moves so I don' have ta' baby sit ya' next time Nate sends us lookin' for gang bangers." Hardison takes another step closer. "The beatin' the crap outta ya' is purely for _my_ benefit."

Hardison plasters himself against the wall again.

All right, time to get serious.

"_Hardison_," he says, exasperation sneaking into his tone. "Look, man, ya' need ta' know how t'do this stuff, okay?"

"Why? S'what we got you for innit? You _like_ this stuff."

"Yes, I do," he replies matter-of-factly. "But what if I ain't around? Or hell, what if I am, but I've got my hands full? There are actually limits ta' how many guys I can take at once, y'know."

"Psssh, yeah, limits like what? Ten? Twelve?"

Actually, his personal best is fourteen…but it was dark and a few of them were pretty drunk.

"Hardison…look, why'd I have ta' learn all that Photoshop an' code clonin' an' stuff? S'what we got you for ain't it?"

Hardison glares at him rebelliously, but finally nods once. "All right, all right, you got a point."

Just because he hasn't liked to work with people in the past doesn't mean he doesn't know how such an arrangement functions. They all bring individual skills to the table, but they're part of a chain. And when there's too much specialization, when you're the _only _one on your tea—in your group with your particular skill, it becomes ridiculously easy to break the chain by taking out a single member.

Parker is a thief the way Michaelangelo is a pretty good artist...but they're all pretty competent at getting in and out of places they shouldn't be. Parker just does it faster and way, way better. Sophie is hands down the best con artist he has ever seen—and he's seen more than a few in his time—but they can all step into a role for a job. Even Parker is getting more believable by the day. Nate…well, it's a good thing Nate is basically an honorable man because otherwise he probably would've taken over the world by now. The man is brilliant. Scary-brilliant. None of them can even approach him in strategy, but they can come up with something if they have to—that damn job in Juan had proven that.

None of them, though, can do what Hardison can do with a computer. They're all damn smart, but, though he'll never admit it to the other man, he's pretty certain Hardison is an actual genius. And yes, they're learning a few tricks—he actually typed something on their last job—but to be honest, Hardison's level of hacking is something you have to have a lot of natural aptitude for. Hardison's is the area where there's going to be too much specialization, no matter what.

Thing is, there's only five of them and it's just not feasible for Hardison to stay back in safety with his computers all the time.

"Ain't like Parker and Sophie can go all Streetfighter on yo' ass…I don't see them here," Hardison mutters as he reluctantly begins creeping onto the mat again.

"Sophie and Parker are damn good shots," he retorts, and actually, he's pretty sure Parker could hold her own under a lot of other circumstances, too. "You wanna learn how ta' shoot a gun, I know a guy runs a shootin' range."

He watches Hardison consider the prospect, and the look of horror at the thought of him coming near the other man with a loaded weapon is pretty damn funny. Abruptly, Hardison scampers forward until he's standing opposite him on the mat.

"Naw, naw, fightin's good. Fightin's great. I know how t'fight. Don't come up in my 'hood and not know how t'fight."

"You're tall an' it's pretty obvious ya' work out. That right there means ya' ain't gonna be much of a target. You can talk your way outta lot a' situations an' ya' know a few dirty moves for ones ya' can't. That ain't the same as knowin' how ta' fight."

"Hey, hey, hey I was in that tunnel too, ya' know. I helped."

"Hardison, for the last time, takin' out a guy with a dislocated shoulder ain't _helpin'_."

"Yeah, just you wait."

"Uh-huh, next time I gotta go after a group a' mercs in wheelchairs, I'll know who ta' call."

"You _have _seen 'Murderball' haven't you?"

"Look, you wanna do this or not?"

Hardison reaches up and scratches the back of his head briefly, then rolls his shoulders and jumps up and down a few times. "Yeah. Yeah, s'cool. S'cool."

"Okay, first off, don't do that anymore." He reaches up and lays a hand on the other man's shoulder, forcibly stilling the hopping. "That's Hollywood. You do that in a real fight, all ya' gonna do is tire yourself out. Now, stand like this…weight on this part a' your foot…bend your knees a little bit."

He demonstrates a proper fighting stance and is pleased when Hardison quickly copies his position. The man the advantage of height and reach on him, so he's going to have to adjust his own style to show Hardison how best to use those pluses. And really, he's not looking to turn the guy into a prize fighter in a few weeks. It took him _years_ to learn what he knows about fighting, and hey, the physical stuff _is _what their little group has him for. But yeah…he can make sure that Hardison will be able to watch his own back if he's not there for some reason. At least enough to hold his own until he can _get_ there.

It just makes sense. That's all. He has no other motivation.

"All right…now hit me." Instantly, Hardison straightens up, backing away a few steps.

"Say what?"

He throws his arms open, affecting an innocent expression. It makes Hardison back away a few more steps.

"Hit me."

"No!"

"Why not? C'mon, right here." He points at his own chin and tilts his head to give the other man a better angle.

"Why not? Tell you why not, 'cause you gonna go all _Assassin's Creed _on me an' hit me back."

"Assassin's---what? Hardison, seriously, hit me."

"No, you're gonna hit me back!"

"I'm not gonna hit ya' back."

"Yes you are. I'm gonna lose some teeth or somethin', gonna be blood, no one want all that up in here."

"Hardison, I promise I'm not gonna hit ya'." Hardison pauses in his retreat, and regards him cautiously.

"For reals?"

"Ain't gonna hit ya'."

"You _promise._" Hardison inches closer again, but halts the movement and reverses.

"I promise."

"This ain't like a test or nothin'? 'Cause, y'know, you an' me, we gonna have trust issues if you lyin'."

"Hardison, c'mon, hit me."

"You really promise you ain't hittin' back?"

"On my mama." Hardison takes another few careful steps forward until they are standing face to face again.

"Okay…okay…but you promised."

"I promised," he agrees solemnly.

Hardison puts his fists up in a fairly decent guard, if a little too open near his ribs. He himself lets his arms fall down by his side again, loose and relaxed. He cocks one eyebrow and Hardison's left shoulder shifts, telegraphing the punch in a way that a blind man could see. The younger man's fist snaps out and his own hands go up, catching Hardison's wrist and knocking the punch off –course. Hardison's momentum brings him forward and he goes in with a swift punch to the gut that would've put a real opponent on the ground. It's Hardison, though, so he pulls the hit and just knocks the breath out of the other man.

"Lesson number one," he says brightly, as Hardison stumbles back, wheezing. "Never assume the other guy's gonna play fair."

Hardison glares at him balefully, his mouth working soundlessly as he tries to suck in air. Finally, he finds his voice again. "Man…that…ain't…_right_!" he pants, bracing his hands on his knees and leaning forward. After a few more moments, he pulls himself upright. "A'ight, a'ight I see how it is. That's fine, man…you had your fun—and by the way, watch what happens to your credit score tonight—so what's lesson two?"

This time, the smirk that plasters itself across his face is definitely of the evil variety.

"Lesson two? Lesson two is you learn how ta' take a punch."

* * *

Hardison is bent over like an old man and loudly cursing him, his children, his children's children, and his children's children's children when he pulls the truck back onto the street where the Leverage offices are. The younger man limps into the building, loudly proclaiming that he is an evil, evil man and by the time the night is over, every member on the Cougar-Date website is going to know that he's a bad, bad boy who wants a strong sugar-mama to teach him some manners.

Hardison shuts up when he demands to know where he heard of a cougar-Date website.

And three days later, Hardison shows up in his office, already dressed in a pair of sweats and a tank top, and asks when he gets lesson three.

Two weeks after that, the rec kids all know Hardison's name, and when the younger man finally flips him over his shoulder and throws him to the mat, there's wild cheers from the audience they've attracted and money changing more than a few hands.

A month after _that_, he charges into a group of Mexican hitmen trying to beat the crap out of Jack Hurley, and it doesn't even occur to question whether or not Hardison can handle the one he's not dealing with. It's only after the dust has settled that he even realizes he left his back open, trusting that Hardison would fill in the gap.

He left his back open.

His intention had just been to teach Hardison how to defend himself…make it that much harder for someone to take the man out if he himself couldn't be there to handle a threat. He never intended for it to be a two-way street, never intended to view Hardison as a…

He's not ashamed to admit that he's more than a little paranoid. It's helped him stay alive…in his business there really is something to the whole 'just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you' idea. To just leave Hardison to guard his back like that—that's something. That's something big.

That's something like trust.

That's something like friendship.

That's something that is very, very impractical in his line of work, in his _life._

He's a practical man. There's something to those stereotypes about a level-headed, salt-of-the-earth mentality where he's from, and his parents were prime examples of that. And even if that weren't the case, anything in him that had been given to looking at things with anything but utter pragmatism had been effectively wiped out by a somber knock on his front when he was seventeen. Being in the retrieval business for the better part of twenty years has elevated that practicality to something that flirts pretty shamelessly with ruthlessness. He wouldn't go so far as to call himself ruthless…but he is a very, very practical man.

But somehow, as he sprawls back in one of the chairs in the conference room, Patriots vs. the Steelers splashed up on the screens, and clinks bottles with Hardison…he thinks maybe he can afford to be impractical.

Just for a little while.


	8. Changing Strategies: Present

Heyas,

Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed this. I'm so pleased that people are enjoying it and that the original characters in it have been so well-received. I hope this next part pleases, as well. Also...I'd intended for this to be, like, maybe 15 or 20 parts, but I'm just having way too much fun. I want it to keep going. But I've got my set little story-arcs in my head...got some of Eliot's early retrieval years in mind, got some more stuff in mind for his family, got some fun bits on the back burner that serve no other purpose but to be hurt/comfort fests...Hell, I've even got a Parker-muse now who keeps jumping up and down and telling me that Parker/Hardison smacks way too much of puppy love and Parker/Eliot would totally get each other way better. I'm a slasher...I don't do het! See what this fandom has done to me? Any road, I've got ideas, but they're finite and I would love some prompts...seriously, situations, interactions you'd like to see...Nate and Sophie need some love in this, but damned if I can think of a way to throw them in with Eliot :( I'm taking all applicants.

Slight spoilers in this part for "Juror Number Six" job....nothing major, just mentions Peggy and Parker's coffee date.

Many thanks to raggedy_edge on LJ for the beta on this!

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with leverage and make no claims on any recognizable trademarks thereof. No money is exchanging hands, please don't sue.

* * *

In his experience, life is a lot like chess. You make your moves, stay within the set rules and parameters--and even professional criminals like him have rules, however twisted they are…that's what separates him from the average psycho thug—plan out a strategy, and try your best to stay three moves ahead of the game. Every action has a consequence and sometimes it's a split-second decision that changes the entire game. He's always been good at thinking strategically…as long as he keeps a tight rein on his temper, he's got a pretty good grip on the game, and what the board is going to look like in a few moves. That's probably why he can wade into a group of six armed men and come out without a scratch on him.

He likes chess.

No one would ever call him the next Bobby Fisher, or anything, but he's pretty good. There's a park a few blocks from his loft where there's usually a game to be had, and once a month there's an amateur tournament that usually attracts a couple hundred people from the surrounding neighborhoods. He goes often enough that he's considered a regular in the park, and he's even made it to the semi-finals in the tournaments a few times.

Today, though, he's just playing for the hell of it. There's a group of older men from the local VA that can pretty much be found in the picnic area every day, cheap plastic chess sets spread out on the tables. They've taken a liking to him, mistaking him for a veteran himself and it's close enough to the truth that he's not going to bother correcting them, and he has a standing invitation to join them when he feels like a game.

He leans forward on the metal grating of the picnic table he's sitting at, and regards the board critically. His opponent is a balding relic of the Korean War named Bill, and the man has him in three moves. He doesn't think Bill sees it yet, though, so he still has time to pull something off. His eyes flick over his pieces—he's playing black, of course—and finally he settles on a risky maneuver. It'll cost him his bishop…but what the hell? No guts, no glory and all that.

He makes his move and there's an approving chuckle from one of Bill's buddies at the next table. He glances over at the man, who has been dividing his attention between a Sudoku puzzle and the game he is currently playing, and grins.

"What're you up to, Eliot?" Bill asks ruefully, even as he falls for the bait and moves to take the bishop.

He leans back, enjoying the feel of the warm spring sunshine. In a few weeks, LA is going to be hotter than hell and stinking of melting asphalt, but for now it's rather pleasant to be outside. He raises an eyebrow at Bill and crosses his arms over his chest. "Gonna see in about…two moves."

Bill glances back down at the chess board and frowns, but as he makes his next move, the man's face clears and an admiring grin settles on his weathered features. "Well I'll be damned…walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"Wanna play it out?"

Bill considers a moment, and shakes his head. "This old dog knows when he's beat. Respectfully, sir, I surrender."

He nods graciously, and Bill begins clearing the pieces, putting them back into the battered cardboard box along with the board. He stands up and stretches, arching his back until his spine gives a satisfying little pop.

He's just started helping Bill and the other three men in Bill's little group clear up their boards and the various books and newspapers they'd brought out to the park, when he catches a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Some part of his brain registers the motion pattern as familiar and he's turning even as the movement becomes a blur of arms and legs that's suddenly racing towards him.

He aborts his move for the knife sheathed at the small of his back as he catches sight of a long, golden ponytail and has time for an irritated sigh as Parker barrels into the small concrete court that forms the park's picnic shelter. She's dressed in jeans and a simple white t-shirt with a soft, grey hoodie, and her eyes are wide with something that he would identify as fear on anyone else.

"Eliot! Hello! How are you today?" The words are forced out in a tight monotone as she skids to a halt in front of him. She fists her hands in the front of his green Henley and forcibly spins them around, squeezing in as close to him as possible and lining his back up with the direction she's just come from.

He's surprised enough that he lets her manhandle him, but recovers quickly. "Parker," he whispers in a voice that is more than half growl, "so help me God, if there are cops behind you…" He shoots what he hopes is a reassuring smile to Bill and his friends, who are watching the scene unfold with bemused expressions.

"No cops. Much worse. Hide me." His shoulders stiffen and he reaches up to grab her wrists where they're still resting on his chest, trying to glance over his shoulder without turning around.

"You got Feds on your tail?!"

"Worse! Hold still!" she demands, and in his head he's mapping out every possible exit from the park when another familiar voice reaches his ears.

"Parker? Parker, where are you?" Sophie. He relaxes fractionally and glares down at the woman in front of him.

"Everything okay, Eliot?" Bill asks and he looks over at them with a tight little shrug.

"Fine, Bill. Just gimme a minute here." He returns his attention to Parker, who is sneaking little peeks over his shoulder with an expression like a cornered animal. "_Why_ are ya' hidin' from Sophie?" he asks, not really sure he wants to know.

"I think she's trying to kill me," Parker whispers earnestly. He stares at her a moment, trying to decide if he actually heard her correctly. A disgusted huff crosses his lips.

"Parker! Parker, for heaven's sake! Where are you?" Sophie's voice is getting closer.

"Parker, I ain't helpin' ya' hide from Sophie."

"You have to!"

"What? No, I don't."

"I'll tell Hardison you're the one who spilled coffee on his keyboard."

"That wasn't me!"

"Hardison doesn't know that. Now, who do you think he's going to believe? Hmmmmm."

He glares at her hotly. She just smirks back at him.

"Boys, I guess I'll be seein' ya later." He tosses a wave over to Bill, who returns it with an impressed grin and a discreet thumbs-up as his eyes travel over Parker. He reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. Great. Just great.

"C'mon," he mutters, sliding an arm around Parker's shoulders and guiding her over the concrete and towards a stretch of green they can cut across to get to one of the park's many pathways. "You hit your head or somethin'?" he demands as they walk. Some internal censor that's always sounded disturbingly like his mama's voice absolutely forbids him from roughly dragging Parker along…but yeah, he hurries her a bit.

"No!" Parker answers indignantly. "I really think she's trying to kill me. I shouldn't have insulted her shoes." They leave the open grass, dodging through a game of Ultimate Frisbee, and he releases his hold on her as they hit the tree-lined asphalt path that leads all the way through the park. "I'm meeting Peggy for coffee this Friday, right? And Sophie was all, 'hey, we should practice, let's go out for coffee.' But then she said I needed a new outfit. And then she dragged me into this weird beige office that smelled like dead flowers and next thing I know, she's trying to make me get a manicure. So I booked. The park was the first place I thought I could lose her, and then I saw you with those old guys and---" Her voice gets louder and faster as she talks, arms clenched tightly around her own waist.

Around the time she gets to the dead flowers, he's stumbled to a halt and is staring at her, his mouth hanging open.

"Let me get this straight…ya' ran away from Sophie 'cause she took you shopping and tried to get ya' a _manicure_?" he asks incredulously. She turns back to him, brows knitted together and a stubborn expression on her face.

"This wasn't just a manicure. I've had manicures before. I like manicures. Ups my lockpicking time by two seconds. But this wasn't a manicure. There were all these little bottles of paint and a big bowl of wax. Hot. Wax."

"It's paraffin, Parker, it makes your hands all…y'know what, never mind." He trails off self-consciously as some of the stubbornness is replaced with curiosity. "All right, ya' got away from Sophie's plot to kill ya' with spa treatments. Now, I'm hoppin' off the crazy train right here. I'll see ya' at the office tomorrow." He turns on his heel and stalks off in the opposite direction from her, muttering to himself the whole way.

Less than thirty seconds later, Parker falls silently into step beside him. He jerks to a halt. "What're you doin'?"

"Walking," she replies shortly.

"I can see that," he says calmly. He is very proud of how calm he sounds. No one would ever guess that he's starting to feel that little vein throbbing in his forehead. "Go home. Or back to the office. Or hell, go steal somethin'."

Parker bites her lips and her face pinches into the almost-pained expression he's come to learn means she's about to try and say something quasi-normal.

"Do you think I need to practice?" she asks in a rush, and he blinks a few times as he tries to sort out what exactly she means. He's also come to learn that Parker isn't nearly as cryptic as he'd thought in the beginning…the trick is to just not expect to have a linear conversation. Parker leaps from topic to topic with all the finesse of a drunk bullfrog. "Just. You said _I_ made the friend, not Alice. So, it's not like I need to practice being myself. But Sophie said I should practice."

"Parker, why the hell are you askin' _me_?" He runs a hand back through his hair and resumes walking, not complaining when Parker immediately follows.

"Because you won't lie to me." For the second time, he pulls up short, whipping around to face her.

"Okay, just so we're clear, that right there? Craziest thing I ever heard." His voice lowers a bit, cautious of any passing, prying ears. "I'm a _criminal_, Parker. So're you. Lyin's what we do."

She tilts her head, regarding him with that eerie, laser-like focus she gets sometimes. "No. You lie on the job. Off the job, you don't bother. You're very direct."

He snorts at that. "You're one t'talk," he mutters.

He sighs heavily, and wonders if maybe _he_ got hit in the head at some point in the last ten minutes. Why else would he be having what is quickly starting to look an awful lot like a deep, personal conversation with _Parker_? He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks away from her dark eyes. His gaze lights on a blue and white striped cart a few yards ahead of them and his stomach rumbles, reminding him that it's past one and breakfast was a long time ago.

"Ya' had lunch yet?" he asks. She looks confused for a moment, but mutely shakes her head. He nods decisively and strides ahead, leaving her to once again scramble to catch up. A few moments later, they're seated on the warm metal of a park bench, and he hands Parker one of the gyros dripping with tzatziki sauce he's just purchased, along with a cold can of soda.

She regards it critically for a moment, before biting into it with all the gusto of a starving wolf being offered a juicy steak. No delicate picking and "oh I'll have a green salad with no dressing" for Parker. He tears into his own, approving heartily of the tzatziki's flavor…some people put in way too much garlic. Parker makes a pleased little noise in her throat, and licks a dab of sauce from the crease of her thumb.

"These are almost as good as the ones I got in Athens," she says after a moment.

"When were you in Greece?" he asks curiously. Parker tilts her gaze upwards briefly.

"Mmmm, six years ago? I lifted this little bronze mask thing from the Delphi museum."

He stops mid-chew, eyes widening. "That was you?"

"Uh-huh. Some old guy paid me two point five mil for it. Heard it got ripped off of him, like, six months later."

"Yeah. That 'old guy' was one of Europe's most notorious arms dealers, Parker."

"How do you know?"

He grins at her, not entirely pleasantly. "Who d'ya think he hired ta' steal it back?"

"You worked for Nikos, too? I liked Nikos. He gave me a bonus finders' fee."

"Uh Parker…arms dealer?"

"It was a really big bonus."

He snorts derisively and returns his attention to his lunch. They eat in silence for a few more minutes, before Parker swallows noisily and balls up the wax paper wrapper, shooting it with admirable accuracy into the wire trash bin near their bench.

"So, do you think I need to practice?"

"Practice what?" he asks neutrally. Parker huffs a little, blowing a piece of hair out of her eyes.

"Coffee. Conversation. Hanging out. Whatever Sophie and Hardison think I need to practice."

"Why ya' need to do that?" He pops the tab on his own can of soda and takes a long swallow, imagining for a moment that he can actually hear the gears turning in her head. When he looks back at her, she's staring at him as though _he's _the one who's crazy.

"You don't think I'm normal."

"Nope," he agrees amiably.

"You say that all the time."

"Yup."

"So do you think I should practice before I go see Peggy?" Parker's tone is edging towards petulant now, like a child who can't understand why they're being teased.

"Lemme ask ya' this. Are you happy with who you are? Ya' like it?"

She looks taken aback, as if the question had never occurred to her before. Who knows…maybe it hasn't.

He doesn't like the way that makes him feel.

He _really_ doesn't like that it makes him feel anything at all.

But he doesn't feel like fighting it today.

"Yeah…I guess," she says slowly. "Most of the time."

And that's really all that can be asked of anyone, isn't it? He takes another drink of his cola, then turns to her and stares directly into her eyes.

"Then why does it matter what _I_ think?" he asks seriously. The confused look settles on her face again. "Peggy liked _you_. Deal with it. Also? By my count, ya' been here half an hour now. An' there's been conversation. Hanging out. Hell, I'll buy ya' a coffee, if you want." She blinks at him. Once. Twice. And then he can almost see the light bulb going off over her head. The confusion drains away, and he's treated to a rare, dazzling smile of honest, childlike happiness.

"Huh. You're right," she says brightly, settling back against the bench.

"Don't have ta' sound so surprised," he mutters, but there's no censure in his voice, and when she's not looking, his mouth quirks up into a smile of his own.

He's almost finished with his soda, and about to suggest that they head out of the park so she can get a cab or something, when Parker suddenly sits bolt upright.

"Oh!" she gasps. "Oooh, ooh, this was another friend thing," she says excitedly, and actually claps her hands a couple times. "You took me out to lunch and talked about my problems!"

"Parker—" he begins warningly.

"Hah, can't take it back. This was a friend thing. Although, you did pay for the food, so…huh, does that make it a date?"

"_No_!" he protests instantly, because if he accidentally took Parker out on a _date_…God help him. "No, no, no, you get that right out a' your head."

"A-hah, but you didn't deny it was a friend thing," she says triumphantly.

"Parker," he starts again, and this time he does growl a little.

"I think I like this. We should do other stuff. Want to go steal something?"

Oh, he's getting off this ride right the hell now.

"_No_, Parker. I do not want to go steal something." He tosses his trash into the bin and stands, ignoring her gleeful grin.

"There's a Gun and Knife show at the civic center this week," she sing-songs, and he doesn't think he wants to know how she knows that. Seems like guns and knives aren't nearly shiny enough to attract Parker's attention.

And that look in her eyes? Never fails to send a chill down his spine. "No Parker," he says firmly. "I'm not robbin' a gun an' knife show with you. I don't like guns."

"But you like knives, right?"

He halts his retreat, and a considering look settles on his face. It _has_ been a while since he picked up some new toys. Parker smiles at him again, the slightly manic, slightly dangerous smile that he must be getting used to because it used to creep the hell out of him.

Oh, why not?

He moves back to sit on the bench. "What've ya' got in mind?" he asks.

In his experience, life is a lot like chess. You make your moves, stay within the set rules and parameters--and even professional criminals like him have rules, however twisted they are…that's what separates him from the average psycho thug—plan out a strategy, and try your best to stay three moves ahead of the game.

Sometimes, though, even your most solid strategy is going to fail, and you're going to find yourself changing your whole game.

He's not really sure he minds that so much anymore.


	9. Just Breathe: 19

Hey everyone,

Ah, sweet mercy, what was UP with ff/net this weekend?

So...the story rolls on. We're back in the past with this one, and I was in a little bit of an angsty mood. Sorry for that. I hope 'tis enjoyed, though, and many thanks to those who have reviewed so far. Feedback is the lifeblood of the author and it means so much to me that people have taken the time to tell me what they think...good, bad, indifferent, love it all :)

Many thanks to raggedy_edge on LJ for the beta, again.

* * *

He breathes.

Once, twice, in and out, deliberately concentrating on the expansion and contraction of his lungs. The house is eerily quiet around him, unusual for a Saturday morning. There are no cartoons blaring from the living room, no bickering voices, no thumping feet running in and out of rooms. The only sound is the soft sizzle from the stove where he's attempting to make French toast for breakfast. It's not often he has time to cook a big morning meal…normally they all just fend for themselves with cereal in the mornings.

Today, he wants to make something fancy.

He turns to the kitchen table, where Jesse and Sara-Beth are seated. They've shoved their chairs around the table, flanking his seat on either side as close as possible. He's poured them orange juice and set out a plate of crispy bacon—just the way they like it—but neither of them have touched the food. Sara-Beth is picking aimlessly at the cheap straw placemat, and he swallows hard at how pale she is. Jesse is little better, big, dark circles standing out under his eyes.

He breathes.

_He's spread an old blanket out on the ground in one of the fields behind the house. The grass is tall, this time of year, heavy and lush and green as a cool breeze whispers through it. He's laying back, one arm crossed behind his head, the other wrapped securely around Aimee's slim waist. She's stretched out over him, head pillowed on his chest and with each breath he smells the clean, fresh scent of her shampoo, and the light, flowery sweetness of the perfume he bought her for her birthday a few months back. _

"_What ya' thinkin' about?" she asks, one hand idly tracing the logo on the t-shirt he's wearing. He smiles lazily and reaches up to brush the hair off of her neck, enjoying the way the silky strands slide through his fingers, the warm, pliant weight of her body, even fully clothed. _

_The way she just seems to fit right up against him._

"_You," he answers honestly, and his smile widens at her pleased little laugh. "This. It's nice."_

_She raises her head from his chest, smiling at him so prettily, before she stretches up and kisses him on the mouth. It's slow and soft, sweet as honey, and he pulls her against him more securely. He feels her grin into the kiss, raising her hands to cup either side of his face and there's a wicked little dart of her tongue, just enough that it reminds him that under all the southern sweetness and light, the girl in his arms is a firecracker if ever he met one. _

_And it's just about perfect._

The kids' clothes are presentable, at least, both of them dressed in their Sunday best. Sara-Beth looks like a little china doll—golden curls done up in dark blue ribbons to match her dress. Jesse is a miniature version of himself and Daddy, serious and stern-looking in his black suit and tie.

They'd all spent the night on the couch last night, Sara-Beth huddled in his lap and Jesse slumped against his shoulder. They watched TV without seeing it, whispered together without paying attention to what they were saying, and though Sara-Beth had eventually fallen asleep, he and Jesse hadn't been able to.

He slides the pieces of golden toast onto a plate and sets it on the table, along with a bowl of powdered sugar and a small pitcher of hot syrup. His brother and sister stare at the food as if they're not sure what to do with it. When he finally sits down, Sara-Beth burrows into his side, even as Jesse wraps one arm around his elbow and squeezes.

He breathes.

_They lie back on the blanket, just watching the clouds pass overhead, and he's pretty sure he could happily spend the whole day with Aimee just like this. He's just closed his eyes again when a familiar voice reaches his ears._

"_Elly!" Aimee chuckles ruefully, used to her time with him being interrupted by younger siblings. What is Sara-Beth doing out here? She's supposed to be in the house with Granny and Jess. "Elly! Aimee! __**Elly**__!" He inhales sharply, sitting bolt upright and dislodging Aimee from his chest as he finally takes note of his sister's tone. Her voice is high-pitched, on the edge of tears…and utterly _terrified_. _

"_Eliot, what's goin' on?" Aimee asks, scrambling to her feet even as he does the same. Evidently she's heard it, too. "Sara-Beth? Over here, sweetie!" she yells, waving one arm. He turns around to see his sister racing towards them as fast as her little legs will carry her, blonde head barely clearing the top of the grass. He's off and running as soon as he spots her, heart hammering in his chest. _

"_E-Elly! Elly, ya' gotta come!" she gasps as he reaches her, going down on his knees in front of her and frantically checking for injuries. "G-Granny fell down an'—an' she won't get up." Sara-Beth tugs urgently at his hands, and he feels his stomach drop. "Jesse's callin' a amb'lance…ya' gotta come!" _

_Behind him, Aimee gasps. He rises to his feet again, grabbing Sara-Beth's hand and ushering her towards his girlfriend. "Aimee—" he begins, but Aimee is already reaching for his sister, wrapping her arms around Sara-Beth and drawing the little girl close to her side._

"_I got her, go!" Aimee orders frantically. He doesn't need to be told twice. He turns and sprints back towards the house, praying to God with every breath that everything will be okay, that he grandmother just fell and twisted something._

_It takes less than a minute to run back to the house, but he feels every second passing as though it is an eternity. The back door is hanging open, swinging lazily in the breeze, and he barrels through it, shouting Jesse's name. Instantly, his brother answers, his strained, scared voice floating in from the kitchen. _

_Their grandmother is crumpled on the floor by one of the kitchen chairs. _

_She is not moving. _

He makes up plates for the kids—syrup for Sara-Beth and tons of powdered sugar for Jesse. Jesse shoots him a watery smile and gamely picks up his fork, but Sara-Beth just stares at hers. He reaches over and brushes her hair back from her forehead, and when she looks up at him, her eyes are glassy and full of tears again.

"It's almost nine. Y'all ready for this?" he asks and it is a stupid, stupid question. He wants to call it back as soon as the words cross his lips, but Jesse nods bravely. They'd talked for hours last night…about what to do, the way things would have to be now. About how Jesse will have to step up and take care of Sara-Beth.

God, please let him be able to take care of Sara-Beth.

He wishes he could still believe that God's listening to him.

He breathes.

_The ambulance takes his grandmother to Mercy General, about half an hour away on the highway. He leaves Jesse and Sara-Beth with Aimee, despite their protests, and pushes the truck to its limits, tearing down the road and trying desperately not to think about how gray his grandmother's face had looked, how thin and raspy her breath had been. _

_Tries not to think about how grim Doc Whitton had looked at her last appointment._

_Luck is on his side, kindly keeping cops out of his way, and he makes it to the gleaming hospital in a little over twenty minutes. He tears through the emergency room doors and rushes to registration, gasping out his grandmother's name and praying, praying, _praying_. _

_The nurse pulls up her files on the computer, glancing over the screen quickly. It only takes her a moment to locate his grandmother's information. Her eyes widen fractionally, and there's a soft, quick inhalation._

_When she looks up at him, he doesn't need her to speak. _

Jesse manages a few bites of toast, and he convinces Sara-Beth to nibble on a slice of bacon and drink her juice. He counts it as a victory, and doesn't complain when the two just leave their plates sitting on the table. By unspoken agreement, they make their way into the living room, sinking down on the couch where they'd just spent the night. His brother and sister sit on either side of him, both of them leaning into him, and he wraps his arms around them tightly.

"I wish Mama an' Daddy was here," Sara-Beth whispers suddenly. He starts, looking down at the top of his sister's head. Sara-Beth rarely brings their parents up, and sometimes he wonders how much of them she'll remember when she's grown. He tries to keep them alive in her mind, he and Jesse both do…but he doesn't know how successful they've been.

Beside him, Jesse takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Me too," the boy says softly.

He closes his eyes briefly, and squeezes them tighter.

He wishes his parents were here, too. God, how he wishes. He would give anything, _anything_ to just be able to wake up one morning and realize the last three years have all been a terrible dream. To be able to hear his mama singing in the kitchen, or listen to his daddy cursing at the truck as he worked on it.

He wishes to the core of his soul that his parents were still here, because he's not sure he's strong enough to do this. It's been almost two months since they buried their grandmother…and that was just the start of this nightmare.

Because he's only nineteen.

He has a part-time job at a stable.

There's no longer anyone to watch the kids while he's working.

According to the state…he can't provide his siblings with a stable enough home environment.

There's a crunch of gravel under tires, so much like the sound that changed his world almost three years ago, but this time it's much, much worse. This time, he knows what's coming. Sara-Beth's breath hitches and she suddenly scrambles up, scaling into his lap like a monkey and wrapping her arms around his neck so tightly it _hurts_, but all he can do is squeeze her back. He drags Jesse closer, and Jess clings every bit as tightly as Sara-Beth.

"_Sorry, sorry, God, Mama I'm so sorry." _He screws his eyes shut, refusing to let them see the moisture gathering there. He will not do that to them, will not break down in front of them.

"C'mon," he whispers roughly, and Sara-Beth shudders in his arms.

"No, Elly," she moans, and her little voice is thick with tears. "Don't let 'em. _Please_, I wanna stay with you! Please, Elly. _Please!_"

"Listen ta' me….all right, you listen." With an effort, he extracts himself from his siblings, holding them at arm's length, so that he can look into their faces. Jesse's lips are trembling, tears silently streaking down his face and in that moment, the lanky, overconfident teenager his brother's become is stripped away. All he can see is the tiny, yowling baby that Mama placed in his arms when he was six, whispering that this was his new baby brother and he would have to be a good boy and take care of him. Sara-Beth's face is red and splotchy, her entire body shuddering, and dear God, he'd rather have died than ever see his little sister hurt like this.

Both of them. They were his to take care of, his to protect. And he's failed.

"I'll come see ya' as much as I can…an' I'll call. The Daniels…they're good people, all right? They already said I can come whenever I want an' you two can call me every night. "

At least he has that much…at least their caseworker had kept her word and found a family that would take both of the kids, that was close enough for him to visit.

Sara-Beth shakes his hand off her shoulder and throws herself at him again. He catches her close and rests his chin in her soft, blond hair, biting down on his lips. Jesse's brave façade crumbles and the boy leans his forehead against his chest. "Th-they ain't y-you, EJ," Jesse whispers brokenly. "Th-they ain't o-our family."

He closes his eyes, sucking in deep, gasping breaths and he still feels as though the air is closing in on him. "This…this ain't forever, all right? I promise…no matter what, this ain't forever."

"Elly," Sara-Beth sobs, "please, we don' wanna go. We w-wanna stay w-with you!"

"I know, darlin'…I know, I want ya' with me. But we gotta do this…just for a little while. Please, Jesse...Sara-Beth…I promise, it's just for a little while. I'll get ya' back. I'll do whatever it takes 'ta get ya' back here." Jesse's arms snake around his waist, and the boy's back begins to heave as he cries. Sara-Beth buries her head in the crook of his neck, hot tears soaking into his t-shirt.

There is a knock on the front door.

Easier this way, for the social worker to come and pick them up to take them to the foster family. That's what they told him. Easier for the kids to make a clean break, to not drag out the goodbyes by having him drive them to the couple's house.

Easy as pie for them to rip what's left of his family apart.

"_Sorry, sorry, Mama, Daddy, I'm so sorry…I tried. I swear I tried." _

The knock comes again and he forces himself to stand, forces himself to lift Sara-Beth onto his hip and take Jesse by the hand. Forces himself to take them over to the door, where two meager suitcases have been packed since last night.

"Ya' gotta be strong, now, okay? Please. For me." Jesse grips his hand tightly, pressing a wet face into his arm. His brother's head is nearly level with his shoulder, now, and when had that happened?

"J-just fer a little while?" Jesse whispers.

"Just for a little while," he says fiercely. "Just until I find a better job."

Jesse sniffles, scrubbing his free hand furiously over his eyes. The knocking comes again, an edge of impatience to it, and Jesse flinches back from the sound. If possible, Sara-Beth tightens her grip on his neck, and God, he hopes she will let go when it's time. He doesn't have the strength to _force_ her off of him.

"EJ?" Jesse's voice is so soft he almost doesn't hear it. When he looks down, Jesse is staring intently at his shoes. "Nothin'."

"All right," he says, and lets go of Jesse's hand to open the door. "All right…"

Jeannie Kaiser is a plump, matronly woman in her late forties, who's been a social worker for the past twenty years. He wishes he could hate her, could despise her for what is happening to them…but it's been obvious from the start that she doesn't want to take Jesse and Sara-Beth away from him. She stands on their porch, a little folder in her hands, and eyes full of sympathy. She's fought tooth and nail to get the kids placed together, placed with a good family who will let him stay in their lives.

He's talked with the couple his brother and sister will be liv—staying with, and the only thing that even begins to approach 'all right' about this is that they're good people. They aren't going to keep him from his siblings.

And it's just temporary. Just a couple of months.

He doesn't speak to Mrs. Kaiser, doesn't want to listen to any hollow words of sympathy and how her hands are tied, and it's for the best. He holds his head high as they walk towards her car, and his heart clenches in his chest when, with every step, Jesse's hand tightens on his. Sara-Beth's pleading cries have died off, but her arms do not loosen from his neck as he stops by the backseat door of the dusty sedan.

"Please, baby girl," he whispers, and despite his best efforts, his voice catches. Sara-Beth shakes in his arms, but finally, finally her deathgrip loosens enough that he can set her down.

"Will you come an' get us soon?" she asks, her voice trembling, and he hugs her fiercely.

"As soon as I can," he promises. "It's not forever. I swear this ain't forever." His sister swallows hard and nods, almost imperceptibly. "You be good, okay? Promise me?"

"I-I promise, Elly." She huddles miserably in on herself, leaning forward again and pressing her face into his stomach. He lets himself hug her one more time, just once more, because if he doesn't let go now, he's not going to be able to.

"Love ya', Sara-Beth," he murmurs, "I'll see ya' soon. I'll come as soon as I can." Mrs. Kaiser steps up to them, gently opening the car door and placing her hand on Sara-Beth's shoulder. Sara-Beth pushes herself away from him almost violently, crawling into the car without being told…but she's still shaking. Mrs. Kaiser clears her throat and bustles around to the trunk of the car to load the kids' suitcases.

He turns and looks at Jess, standing so still and silent behind him. He claps his little brother on the shoulder, sliding his hand up to ruffle the boy's hair. "Remember what we talked 'bout, okay?"

Jesse nods bravely. "I'll take care a' Sara-Beth, EJ. I promise."

"Ya' take care a' yourself, too," he says seriously. "Ya' call me if ya' need anything…or just ta' talk. _Any _time, Jess, all right?"

Jesse nods again, pressing his lips together. His brother is struggling so hard to hold onto his own tears, swallowing convulsively every few seconds, trying to put on a brave front for him and Sara-Beth. He doesn't think he has ever been as proud of his brother as he is right now.

"We have to go, now," Mrs. Kaiser interrupts softly, her voice not without kindness. The words hit him like a punch to the stomach, and for the second time that day he feels as though the air is pressing in on him, choking him, squeezing him.

Jesse flinches, and something suddenly desperate and wild blooms in his eyes. "EJ—" the boy says softly. "I—I'm…" The boy gives up trying to find the right words, and suddenly flings himself at him. He rocks back on his heels a little, but catches his brother and pulls him tight against his chest. Jesse buries his face in his shoulder, clenching his fists in the front of his t-shirt. "I'm r-real glad yer m'brother, EJ," the boy mumbles finally.

He can do this.

He can do this.

He has to.

"Me too, Jess. Don't ya' ever think I'm not."

"Eliot…Jesse—it's time to go." Mrs. Kaiser's tone brooks no argument. Jesse takes a deep, quivering breath, and he slowly lets go of his brother, stepping aside and watching blankly as the boy crawls into the car after Sara-Beth. She immediately huddles against Jess, and he watches Jesse's arm slide around her small shoulders, watches the boy try to steel himself against his own pain.

It's an expression he's seen more times than he can count on his own face.

Mrs. Kaiser lays a compassionate hand on his arm as she passes him, and he consciously forces himself not to throw it off. She has done the best she can for them…he has to remember that. It was not enough—nothing but his brother and sister safe and back with him will ever be enough—but he knows this could have gone so much worse for them.

Maybe soon he will be able to be grateful for that.

He stands in the yard as she pulls her car around, holding himself as still as possible.

Because as the vehicle disappears down the gravel driveway, he thinks he might shatter if he moves.

Jesse and Sara-Beth press their faces against the back window, and he wants to wave at them, to smile reassuringly, to do _something_…but he can't move. He watches their faces get smaller and smaller, watches as the dust cloud kicked up by the tires finally swallows his view of them.

Watches until even the dust dissipates and he is left staring at the empty, gravel path.

He blinks, and slowly turns around to look at the house. The front door is standing open, the screen banging softly against the frame because he didn't bother to latch it. There are no footsteps, or blaring television. No voices, no laughter, no cries.

The house is empty.

He is alone.

He breathes. Once, twice, in and out, deliberately concentrating on the expansion and contraction of his lungs.

He breathes, and the exhalation catches on a harsh sob.

* * *

So, um...did I say little bit of angsty mood? I meant full-on, gutwrenching, five-hanky-minimum mood.

It was a bad weekend.

Um, I promise the next one will be fluffy?


	10. Luck Be a Lady, Pt 1: Present

Heyas,

Wow, I am absolutely stunned and so grateful for the response to the last chapter of this. It's incredible to me that people were so moved, and that that particular plot twist was so well received. Many, many thanks to those of you who took time to review...it means more to me than I can say.

I know I promised fluff for this bit...but, well, I'm getting to the fluff by way of more torture. What can I say? I like h/c. Also, this is the Chapter That Would Not Die, and so I'm afraid I must post a warning about the rather large cliff at the end...yup, this chapter is a multi-parter. Hope it is enjoyed!

Many thanks to Topper_885 for the conversation, the plot discussion, and some ideas that I wouldn't have thought of.

* * *

Skills, talent, and smarts get you pretty far in their world…but they won't get you all the way. In the end, the final step between failure and success, between capture and a clean getaway…well, it all comes down to luck. You can plan everything to the last detail, have all the equipment you need at your fingertips, train your body into the perfect tool for the job—but there's always that one instant in a con where everything rides on forces completely out of your control.

Most of the time, they've all enjoyed some pretty damn good luck.

Sure, things have occasionally gone wrong…more than once they've found themselves altering their plans on the fly. They've always managed to land on their feet, though. So, as often as they have tempted Fate—'tempting Fate' here having the meaning of marching up to her, smacking her across the face and screaming '_bring it, bitch_!'—it shouldn't come as any surprise when their luck finally well and truly deserts them in the middle of a job.

Randall Chase is a stocky, thickset man in his early forties, with a shark's smile and a face like twenty miles of bad road, as his daddy would have put it. He's a brilliant businessman who has piloted his Seattle-based company's meteoric rise to the forefront of pharmaceutical research and development, and he is so deep in the pockets of South American drug cartels that he can't even see daylight. The FBI has been trying to make something stick to him for two years, now, but the frequency with which the few souls brave enough to help gather evidence meet with fatal accidents is disturbing, to say the least.

Unfortunately for Chase, the widower of one such soul has found them.

Michael Hall doesn't want spectacular revenge or massive amounts of money—he just wants Chase to pay for what he did to the man's wife, and enough resources to quietly vanish with his daughter and start over. They're going to provide spectacular revenge and massive amounts of money, anyway, of course. Service with a smile and all that.

It's been a nasty job from the word 'go.' The body count around Chase's company is nearing double digits, and some of the names that Hardison dug up in connection with Chase are enough to set off every internal alarm bell he has. He'd flat out refused to stay behind the scenes while Nate and Sophie worked the con, instead demanding that Hardison come up with a cover for him that would allow him to be with the two at all times. No questions, no excuses, no negotiations.

Nate had blinked at him owlishly before consenting with a raised tumbler of scotch, while Parker giggled to herself and Sophie shot him that infuriating, knowing little smirk. Her eyes had been warm, though.

Hardison had taken one look at his face and started typing even before he was finished speaking.

And so it is that two weeks after Michael Hall approached Leverage Consulting, Harding West (Wall Street tycoon with more money than God and a thirst for high-stakes investments), his younger brother Jacob (financial brains of the outfit but acquiescent to 'big brother's' every whim), and Elizabeth Reese (Harding's put-upon personal assistant) are closing an after-hours deal that will allow the fictitious West & West Investments to start laundering Chase's dirty money in new accounts overseas.

It's going beautifully…everything falling into place in about as neat a package as ever happens during a job. Parker and Hardison are parked nearby in the getaway car, and Hardison is ready to bring down the wrath of the FBI with a single phone call and a massive data dump that will send Chase and his cronies to prison for the rest of their lives, while

He himself is leaning against the frame of one of the expansive windows of Chase's boardroom, seemingly disinterested in what is going on behind him, but watching the proceedings intently in the reflections on the night-blackened glass. Nate and Sophie are seated at one end of the long, glass-topped table, one of Hardison's laptops set up in front of Sophie. Nate lounges casually in one of the chairs beside her, every line of his body painting a picture of spoiled indolence and unconcern.

It really is amazing, sometimes, how_ good_ Nate is at all this.

It's all going well, but that doesn't mean he's not on high alert. In addition to Chase, there are three other men in the boardroom, all security muscle. Earpieces, three-piece suits, the whole nine yards. Judging by the fall of their suits and the way the big guy on the left keeps his hand near his belt, they're all sporting shoulder and ankle holsters…and he'd bet good money that Big Guy knows his way around a knife. Probably ex-military—there's something about the guy's bearing that screams Special Forces.

To him, anyway.

The computer in front of Sophie beeps softly, and he hears Hardison's voice in his ear confirming that the money has been wired into the dummy account, and it will only take him a few minutes to hack the account numbers from the transfer and drain the rest. Sophie smiles politely and closes the laptop, nodding to Nate and rising smoothly to her feet. Nate claps his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm, jumping up as well.

"Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure doing business with you," Nate says brightly, smiling with too many teeth. Chase rises from his own seat at the other end of the table, and brushes a few specks of imaginary lint from the cuff of his suit jacket. Big Guy suddenly puts his hand to his earpiece, cocking his head slightly as he listens to whoever is on the other end. There's no outward reaction to whatever is being said…but he glances briefly at Nate and Sophie before leaning over Chase's shoulder to whisper in the man's ear.

Could be nothing. There's no reason to think it's anything to do with them…but it raises his hackles all the same.

Chase looks mildly interested in whatever Big Guy is saying, but waves him off after a moment. "The pleasure's all ours, Mr. West," Chase says, his voice ringing with warmth that is about as genuine as crocodile tears. "I must say, you came along at a very fortuitous time."

He lets his eyes flick over the other three men, and though no one is making any threatening moves, he feels the back of his neck prickle. He has long ago learned to trust that feeling. He moves to Sophie's side as casually as he can, laying a hand on the back of one of the chairs and leaning in close as if he's going to say something to her.

"Well, in my experience, that's the very best time to show up for a business deal!" Nate guffaws loudly, as though it is the best joke he's ever heard. "But I'm afraid we do have other engagements to get to tonight. Jake, Elizabeth, you ready?" Nate's expression and tone do not change a whit, but he shifts himself closer to Sophie as well. He meets Nate's eyes for a split second of silent communication.

Nate quirks an eyebrow fractionally. "_Everything okay?_"

He narrows his eyes slightly. "_Can't tell. Somethin's up._"

Nate lifts his chin. "_Do we need to pull the plug?_"

His jaw tightens. "_Just get out fast._"

Nate's nose twitches. "_Big Guy smells kind of funny._"

Wait…that can't be right_._

"—Whoops. Uh guys? We might have a slight problem here.—" Hardison's voice in his ear distracts him briefly, but he doesn't have time to wait for more details.

Nate's eyes suddenly go wide, and the man reaches for Sophie's arm.

Damn it.

He doesn't waste time turning around to see what is happening...he just grabs the back of the chair he is standing behind. Whirling, he hurls the piece of furniture at the group standing at the opposite end of the table with all his might. The chair is not nearly heavy enough to do any kind of damage, but Chase and two of his men duck away instinctively, giving him, Nate, and Sophie time to run for the door. He glances back over his shoulder, and is not entirely surprised to see that Big Guy was not distracted by flying office furniture, and a silencer-equipped Beretta is just clearing the man's holster.

_Damn_ it.

"Go!" he shouts, unnecessarily, as Nate and Sophie are already ducking through the door. He sprints after them, ignoring the shouts behind him and hunching as low as he can without sacrificing speed. He hits the door just as there is a muffled, but all too familiar sound from Big Guy's general direction. He flinches to one side as part of the doorjamb explodes into splinters, mere inches from his head.

Okay. So. They're not playing around, here.

God, he hates guns.

He crashes through the door, and growls to himself as he catches sight of Nate and Sophie hovering only a few feet down the hallway that leads to the elevators, _waiting_ for him. He frantically gestures for them to just go, and Sophie reaches down to pull off her ridiculously high heels. Nate places one hand on the small of her back, the other going to his ear.

"—Hardison, what the hell's going on?—" Nate demands over the comms.

"—I dunno! I must've tripped somethin' when I hacked into the accounts.—" Hardison's answer is frenzied, and just a bit disbelieving. He's a bit shocked to realize he shares the younger man's disbelief. Hardison doesn't 'trip' _anything_ when he does what he does. "—No, no, aw, _hell_ no…you think you gonna take me down wit' that?—"

"Hardison, focus!" he orders harshly, catching up to Nate and Sophie and ushering them further down the hallway, they turn the corner towards the elevators just as he hears the boardroom doors crash open a second time, and they have seconds, tops, before Chase's goons are on them again. "How we gettin' outta here?"

"—Right, right, right…aw, damn it.—"

"Hardison!" There's an edge to Sophie's voice, now, and he casts his eyes around the hall they are running down, looking for some kind of weapon. He misses the days when there were standing ashtrays down every office building hallway. Those were nice. His eyes light on the door to a fire exit stairwell.

"Nate, in here!" he shouts, yanking the door open and ignoring the shrill of the alarm. Right now, it's speed over stealth. There's more security no doubt converging on the floor, he's got Nate and Sophie to worry about, and while there's only three of them, Chase's men are armed. He needs to get to a place where he can counter the advantage of the guns without putting Nate and Sophie at risk. He holds the door open for his companions, glancing back down the hallway in time to see Big Guy and his buddies come barreling around the corner_. _

"Hey, you! Stop right there!" Big Guy screams, and he rolls his eyes. Yeah, that always works. He pushes the door shut and follows the other two down, taking the steps two and three at a time.

"Hardison, we need an exit," Nate gasps as they run. "Sooner is better, here."

A couple flights above them, the door bursts open. He hurries down closer to Sophie and pushes her as close to the wall as he can, indicating for Nate to do the same with a jerk of his chin.

"—They've locked down all the elevators an' security's coverin' all the stairwell doors on the ground floor. A'ight, look, get down three floors…there's a maintenance elevator I can unlock, get ya' to the sub-basement.—"

"Delivery bay," Nate catches on, and nods to himself. The crash of heavy steps on the concrete floors of the stairwell echoes down to them, interrupting further conversation.

"C'mon, we gotta move fast," he says. They hit the next landing, and he risks leaning out over the railing to get a glimpse of where exactly the security team above them is. He meets Big Guy's dark eyes over the railing just a flight above them, and for the second time that night he finds himself recoiling sharply as the man's gun appears, aiming for his head. The bullet strikes the metal railing far too close to him for comfort, and he huffs out a breath. "Guy's a pretty good shot," he says, a tinge of admiration in his voice.

"Great," Nate mutters. "How close are they?"

Before he can answer, there is a clatter of footsteps at the top of the stairs they've just come down, and they all three whirl to find Chase's three thugs standing above them, guns drawn, but pointing up into the air.

"Too close," he answers fatalistically.

Damn. It.

Big Guy grins, a nasty sort of smirk he himself has worn more times than can be counted. "Down on your knees, hands behind your head," the man orders.

He darts a look at Nate and Sophie. They're huddled by the door to the hall, with him on the outer-most edge of the group, furthest into the center of the landing. He makes the decision in a heartbeat.

"Run!" He throws himself sideways into them. Sophie yelps in shock and Nate hits the push bar with the momentum of his shove. The door swings open, spilling Nate and Sophie out into the office hall in a tangle of limbs.

Big Guy yells in surprise and outrage, and the stairwell is filled with the muted pops of more weapons-fire. He grunts softly as he crosses the threshold of the door, rolling into the fall and coming up on his knees next to Nate and Sophie. He hunches over, almost pressing his forehead into the thin, industrial carpet and concentrates on taking short, even breaths.

"You okay?" Nate demands, and he hears the man pulling himself off the floor.

"Yeah…yeah m'fine. C'mon!" he barks, staggering to his feet and reaching down with one hand to help Sophie up.

The three of them flat out sprint down the hallway they've come out on, uncaring of where they're going, just needing to put some _distance_ between themselves and their pursuers. The hallway t-bones into another corridor, and he can hear Hardison over the comm, cussing a blue streak and muttering to himself as he frantically tries to find them a way out.

"—Left, go left_!_—" the young man hollers as they reach the end of the hall they're in. They speed around the corner just as he hears Chase's men explode through the stairwell door.

Nate and Sophie race down the hallway Hardison has indicated, but he skids to a halt just around the corner, flattening himself against the wall. There's no way Big Guy and his boys didn't see which way they went…if they're to have any chance of getting out of this, he needs to even up the odds and get the immediate pursuit off their tails.

He takes a deep breath, shrugging out of the suit jacket he is wearing as quickly as he can and ripping the tie off. He balls the jacket up, tucking it in close against his side, and leans his head back against the wall, trying to quiet his breathing as much as possible.

It takes a moment for Nate and Sophie to realize that he's no longer following them. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees them stutter to a halt, whirling back to him. He grinds his teeth in frustration, sharply waving them on. Nate moves as if to come back to him and he hisses softly.

"Nate, you an' Sophie out a' here, _now_," he grits out, knowing the comms will carry his voice to them. He can hear their pursuers running towards his position. "Ain't up for debate, I'll be right behind ya'."

He glares down the corridor at them, meeting Nate's eyes for a bare instant. The older man looks torn, but reluctantly grabs Sophie's arm and begins hustling her further down the corridor.

"—You better be_,--_" Nate orders grimly.

"—Nate, we can't just leave him!—"Sophie protests.

"—We have to get security off of us, or we're not getting out of here. Eliot can take care of himself, probably better if he doesn't have to worry about us. Hardison, talk to me._—"_

He tunes out the rest of the conversation, satisfied that Nate and Sophie are all right for the moment. He has every confidence that Hardison will be able to guide them out without incident.

He's a little less confident about Hardison's ability to get _him_ out of this. He looks down at the wad of what used to be a very nice linen suit jacket, pressed tightly against his side just below his ribcage.

The fabric is already stained a dark red, and slick, wet warmth is spreading rapidly against his hand.

He really. Hates. Guns.

The flashlight beams bouncing on the wall opposite him are getting brighter, and he can hear their three followers galloping down the hallway. They're not slowing down as they approach the junction of the corridors and he grins to himself. Big Guy should know better. But if they're ignoring as basic a pursuit tactic as 'check before you go careening around blind corners,' then Big Guy isn't expecting any kind of fight at all.

That'll work to his advantage…but he's under no illusions. This is going to have to be fast. He licks his lips and takes another deep breath, letting the jacket fall to the floor beside him. He shifts his weight to the balls of his feet as the thundering footsteps become louder and louder. He hunches his shoulders, consciously forcing his awareness of the pain radiating from his side down and away, somewhere deep in his own mind where it can't distract him.

It isn't Big Guy who rockets around the corner first, but one of his cronies—a dark haired man only a little bigger than he himself is. The man's holding his gun out loosely by his side, with only his flashlight up and for pity's sake…hasn't the guy even seen an episode of _Law & Order_ before? He moves with all the speed and silence of a striking snake, coming in low and crashing his fist up against the man's jaw with shattering force. There's a satisfyingly wet crunch and the man doesn't even have time to yell as he grabs the lapels of his suit and swings him hard into the second guard, just behind them.

The two go down in a twisting pile, but he doesn't stop moving. He has a brief second to appreciate the comical look of shock painting its way across Big Guy's square-jawed features before he plows into the man. He jabs upwards with the heel of his hand, striking Big Guy's wrist and forcing the drawn gun upwards, even as he brings his knee up hard into the man's hip joint. The gun clatters to the floor and he kicks out blindly at it, sending it skittering down the darkened hallway. Not as effective a neutralization as ejecting the clip…but no one's going to be able to find it in a hurry.

Big Guy stumbles back with a grunt and he whirls again, this time to find the guard he threw the first one into gaining his feet. He lashes out with a swift kick as the man is hunched over, catching him on the temple with a steel-toed boot. The guard drops like a sack of potatoes, and he makes a mental note to crow about this to Sophie later.

The woman had wanted him to wear _wing-tips_ to the meeting.

Then he doesn't have time for thought at all as he is grabbed from behind in a bear-hug and lifted off his feet. Big Guy actually roars in his ear as he is wrested around and slammed face first into the wall of the hallway. The sudden impact sends a bolt of near-incandescent agony rocketing out from the bullet wound, and he bites back a scream as he struggles to break the hold pinning his arms to his sides. Big Guy has at least six inches and sixty pounds on him, though, and it looks like he was right…the man knows what he's doing.

"Who the hell _are_ you people?" Big Guy gasps into his ear, tightening his grip mercilessly.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he slams his head backwards, hitting Big Guy square across the bridge of the nose. Big Guy lets out a startled yell, and the hold loosens enough for him to finally get one arm up. He half-twists in the larger man's grip, bringing his elbow up hard against Big Guy's ear. The angle is too awkward for him to put his usual force behind the blow, but it's enough to make Big Guy release him.

He turns to face his opponent.

"—Eliot, man, what's goin' on?—" Hardison's voice is low and tight with worry.

"Not now," he grunts, hoping the other man has the sense to listen to him. He cannot afford _any_ distractions right now.

"—Dude, I got Nate n' Sophie at the elevator, but I ain't gonna be able to hack it twice. They're lockin' things down tighter than Fort Knox here.—"

"Get 'em out," he orders shortly, and he sincerely hopes that his tone manages to convey just how irritated he is that they are even _having_ this conversation.

"—Eliot…—"

"Now!"

He leans against the wall for a moment, breathing harshly and pressing his left hand against his side as tightly as he can. The wet heat of fresh blood trickles between his fingers. His shirt and pants already soaked through, and if he can't get somewhere where he can take care of the wound soon, staying on his feet is going to become an issue.

He pulls himself straight, clenching his teeth against the pain in his side. He ignores it. He doesn't have time to deal with pain, right now. Blood is spurting freely from Big Guy's obviously broken nose, but those six inches and sixty pounds are starting to look even more massive. Ordinarily, it wouldn't be a problem, but Big Guy knows how to fight. Still wouldn't be a problem.

Except for the small matter of the bullet lodged in his side.

"—Eliot, I got three security teams movin' in on your position. Ya' gotta get the hell outta there _now_, man.—" The tension in his voice has dissolved into outright fear, and that tells him everything Hardison isn't saying. If he doesn't get out of here now, he's going to have to get out on his own.

Problem is, Hardison just thinks that means the team will end up having to break him out of police custody. He knows better. If Chase had wanted the police involved, they'd have been here long ago. If security catches him, the only way he's leaving this building is in a body bag.

"Little busy, Hardison."

His opponent spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor, straightening slowly. The man rolls his neck from side to side, his dark eyes zeroing in on the rapidly-spreading bloodstain at his side. He braces himself silently, watching for any weakness in the other's defense.

He only has a few minutes before his only escape route is cut off completely.

He narrows his eyes, pressing his hand even harder against the bullet wound. This is bad…this is very bad. The guy smiles at him nastily, and darts forward.

He's forced to let go the pressure he's been keeping on the wound, raising both hands in a defensive posture as Big Guy rushes him. The man's fist lashes out towards his jaw and he groans a little as he deflects it with his forearm, forcing Big Guy's arm up as he slams his own fist into the larger man's gut. His opponent grunts in pain, but doesn't go down. Instead, the man's beefy hand comes down on a nerve cluster at his shoulder joint, pinching hard. White hot pain flares in his arm, followed by a creeping numbness. He lets his grip on Big Guy's wrist go slack, stumbling backwards against the wall again.

He huffs out a soft breath as his back hits the wall, rapidly trying to shake the feeling back into his arm as Big Guy dances in close. He ducks a hard jab, barely, and snaps out a kick at the man's knee. He's slower than usual, though, and Big Guy dodges it easily enough. He catches sight of the man's mouth twisting into a sadistic grin, right before a heavy fist buries itself in his wounded side.

A low, animalistic groan claws its way out of his throat as pain explodes through his whole body. His vision goes red for a moment, an alarming blackness licking at the edges of his sight, and he feels himself sinking to his knees.

"—Eliot! Eliot, what's going on?--" He knows Hardison's voice is right in his ear, but it sounds strangely far off., half-drowned by the roar of blood in his ears. The fire in his side blooms outwards, stealing his breath, and he clings to consciousness with all the stubbornness of a drowning man clinging to a life preserver.

He's had worse. He knows he's had worse. But God, he really, _really_ hates guns.

Dimly, he sees Big Guy take a few quick steps backwards. Some part of him notes the tensing of the man's leg and frantically commands his body to move right _now_. The man's foot lashes out at him, aiming for his head and he forces himself, _forces_ himself to get his hands up…because if Big Guy connects, then it's all over.

But then, he's faced down many people that are farworse than this guy has ever dreamed of being.

He snarls, baring his teeth as he catches the man's ankle just so. The impact jars his arms something fierce, but he merely tightens his grip as much as he can. He yanks forward with a vicious twist, and above the roar in his ears he hears the clean _snap_ of bones breaking. Big Guy howls, and he yanks again, sending the larger man crashing to the floor in front of him.

He staggers to his feet, looming over his fallen opponent. Big Guy's lip curls in a disgusted grimace, and he actually moves as though he's going to try to get up.

It's his turn to wear the sadistic little smirk, though.

A steel-toed boot to the head hurts like a mother and drops you fast. A steel toed boot to an area a little further south? Well, that's just pure hell, there.

Big Guy screams, clutching at himself and curling into a gasping, retching ball. He glares balefully at the huddled man for a moment, before leaning down and simply punching him into oblivion.

Bastard.

He lurches back against the wall, grabbing his side and just gasping in great, gulping breaths. He swallows heavily, trying to get a handle on the pain…it was a pretty small caliber bullet, but any way you slice it, getting shot hurts like a bitch. And he doesn't even need to look to know he's losing too much blood. Hazily, he forces himself away from the wall and looks around for his ruined suit jacket.

"Hardison, what's happenin'?" he asks softly, spotting the pile of fabric near the fallen bodies of Big Guy's two companions. He grits his teeth as he moves towards it, testing his balance as he goes. "Nate an' Sophie?"

"—Are fine,—" Nate answers brusquely. "—We're almost to Hardison and Parker. You, however, were supposed to be right behind us.—"

"Got distracted," he mutters, bending down slowly to scoop up the jacket. He rolls it up again quickly, pressing it against the wound with a soft hiss.

"—Eliot, are you all right?—" Sophie's concerned voice floats over the comms.

"Fine," he replies automatically. No sense in worrying anyone right now. "Where th'hell do I need to go t'get outta here?"

"—Hardison?—" Nate asks, and he begins heading down the same hallway he sent Nate and Sophie down. He clenches his fist into a white-knuckled grip on the makeshift pad against his side as he forces his much-abused muscles into a loping jog. It takes him a few moments to register the silence on Hardison's end of the line.

He slows to a halt, bracing his shoulder against the wall and putting one hand to his ear and repeating Nate's inquiry. "Hardison?"

"—Eliot, they're almost on you,--" Hardison says softly. "—They got all the elevators an' all the stairwells locked down. I can't…there ain't no way out.—"

A cacophony of shouts breaks out over the comms at Hardison's words, Nate and Sophie both yelling at the younger man that he has to be wrong, that there has to be something they can do. He closes his eyes briefly, before shoving himself off the wall. A smear of his blood is left behind, and he breathes through the pain of the movement. He shoots a glance down either end of the hallway he is standing in.

Skills, talent, and smarts get you pretty far in their world…but they won't get you all the way. In the end, the final step between failure and success, between capture and a clean getaway…well, it all comes down to luck.

And if you stay in their world long enough, eventually your luck is going to turn on you.

To Be Continued...


End file.
